Morality and Immortality
by Amygraceclare
Summary: Salazar Slytherin is an immortal alcoholic. Tom Riddle is a psychopathic idiot. What could possibly go wrong?
1. Nine Hundred and Eighty One

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. If I did, this fanfic would already be a 5 movie franchise.**

My name is Salazar Slytherin.

I am nine hundred and eighty-one years old.

This is my twenty fourth body.

I'm immortal, powerful, clever and, quite frankly, gorgeous. Eternal life is good. Mostly.

Every one of my forms has been beautiful, but none more so than my current body. Pale, with tumbling dark tresses and green eyes. I've called this incarnation Evangeline Chambers. The pun on the surname is, I admit, not very subtle, but I'm finding it amusing that no-one's caught on yet.

And yes, I'm female. I'd been male for my past couple of lives, and I fancied something a bit different. I like to change it up every few lives or so, anyway.

I took this body in order to attend the school I built once more so that I could keep an eye on my last living descendant: a boy named Riddle.

I know what Riddle is: an idiot.

Also potentially a psychopath, but that's not really relevant.

So here's the plan. I'm going to try to help him. Befriend him and all that jazz. So that when the time comes, he'll help me in return.

And if I can't help him, I may well have to destroy him. Hopefully without too much mess. We'll see how it goes.

* * *

**PART ONE: The Actions**

I purposefully chose all the same NEWT subjects as Tom Riddle, having deliberately just scraped the required OWLs the year before, so finding myself the first lesson back in his Defense class is no surprise. To avoid attention, I have always made sure that I'm average in class- not bright (or idiotic) enough to attract attention. However, I may have to drop the act somewhat if I'm going to get close to him.

He currently lounges in a seat near the front, clearly basking in the admiring glances being thrown his way. Not surprising, considering all his OWLs last year were "Outstanding". I suppose that shows he inherited my brains, but there's this lack of true emotion that surrounds him that seems to alienate him somewhat, and it's unsettling. He certainly didn't get that from my side of the family. In addition to this, he's unnaturally good looking, so much so that if I didn't know better, I might think that he's in an artificially crafted body like my own. Raven hair contrasting with porcelain skin and glacier blue eyes that mask the cold, cunning killer that I know lurks underneath that irritatingly perfect face. And he's well aware that his beauty is just another weapon in his large arsenal.

Even while the professor lectures us on the importance of NEWTs, he pays little attention, preferring to survey the classroom as if he owns it, an elegantly bored expression plastered over his features. Many of the girls blush furiously when he catches their eyes, but there's no emotion behind his own gaze. His icy eyes wander around the various students until they rest on my face. I swallow down my disgust when he waits expectantly for the flush that all the other girls succumb to, and simply stare back, an unimpressed look fixed in place. I even go so far as to raise an eyebrow slightly. A tiny smirk curls the corner of his mouth before he turns back to face the front. I too bring my focus back to the lesson, despite already knowing everything we're being told. Returning to school can be a little repetitive, but I usually don't pay attention in class, instead reading disguised books on questionable spells and potions. It amused me greatly last year to find that one of the exam questions was one I had myself written in a previous life, so classes and revision has never been a worry. I suppose that is one of the merits of being over nine centuries old and immortal.

I tune in to the professor's voice just in time to catch the words "So I expect most of you to attend duelling club this year to be an example to the younger students." Hiding my smile, I doodle on the parchment absentmindedly, already forming a plan in my mind. After Tom Riddle's perfect marks in Defense last year he will be expected to attend- his absence would be regarded as a black mark on his flawless record. And if I need Tom to notice me, the best way would be to impress him with power or skill. Duelling club provides the perfect opportunity for either or both of these.

Just as I am calculating exactly how I can ensure he sees me, I feel a faint brush against my mind, no more than a whisper. Leglimency. I resist the urge to roll my eyes but allow myself a tiny smirk as Tom Riddle attempts in vain to look into my innermost thoughts. Watching him closely, I can see that he retains the same facade, yet his shoulders tighten slightly, the only sign of his frustration. Perhaps I won't need to go to duelling club after all- there's no way that he's going to ignore the fact that I've just employed flawless occlumency against him.

Predictably, Riddle corners me in the hallway after class has finished. "Chambers," he greets, inclining his head slightly. Honestly, I'm surprised he even knows my name, since he's never bothered to speak to me before. Of course, he doesn't really know my name; just the one I'm currently using. "Thomas Riddle," I reply, offering him a tight smile. He frowns slightly and says "It's just Tom. Not Thomas."

"I know," I say simply.

A corner of his lips curves downwards and I resist the urge to laugh. He already looks mildly bewildered. However, he recovers soon, deciding (wisely) not to ask.

"I believe we have the next class together," he begins relatively smoothly. I'm not sure I really want to know how- or why- he knows my timetable, but since I know his, I can't really talk. "I believe we do," I answer. I think I know exactly where this conversation is going, but I decide to let him speak first. Indeed, he waits until we are walking down a quieter passage before he begins. "So, you know occlumency?"

"I can see why they call you the most gifted student in our year."

This time he is very careful about concealing his irritation: the only sign is his eyebrows narrowing very slightly. "Who taught you?"

I decide not to give him a straight answer. If he thinks that I'm willing to do whatever he says, he won't take the trouble to win me over. "Who taught you Leglimency?"

His eyes begin to glitter dangerously. "Answers for answers," he says.

I smile brightly at him. "Then neither of us will get any."

We walk for a while in silence. Then he says " Do you take all the same NEWT subjects as me?"

I pause, and then reply "I wouldn't know. I don't make a habit of learning other people's timetables." Liar.

His lips begin to curl upwards in a cold smile. "And you think that I do?" he asks, feigning innocence.

"How am I supposed to know what you get up to in your spare time?" I say quietly, but not weakly. "We've never even spoken before."

I can virtually see the curiosity screaming in his eyes. He really needs to learn how to control his emotions: I can read almost all of his mannerisms. Although I have been studying him for over six years.

"True," he muses. "Funny. We've been in the same house for six years and never spoken."

"Not really." I say mildly.

"Why's that?" he asks darkly. He's distinctly confused now.

"Because," I say, as if speaking to a child, "there are a great many people in our house. How could the brilliant, star student Thomas Riddle possibly hope to get round them all?"

He doesn't reply, instead frowning and looking at the floor.

This couldn't have gone any better. I can feel that I'm really getting under his skin, which I'm sure few have done without being severely maimed, but he's so intrigued in me that I know he won't force answers out of me. Yet.

I almost want him to try, just to see his face when I defeat him without lifting a finger.

We arrive at the door to the charms classroom, where he steps aside to let me enter first. I'm tempted to laugh; he thinks that he can charm me that easily? I smirk at him as I walk in, swaggering a little to my usual seat at the back of the class. When he joins me at my desk, I can hardly contain my glee. He thinks that he's going to be able to manipulate me by getting close to me! It's so wonderfully ironic.

In a soft, lethal tone that promises violence, he whispers "If you think that this conversation is over, you're wrong."

A ghost of a smile graces my lips. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

To be honest, I'm finding it slightly amusing that Riddle thinks he's being subtle about following me around school. He hasn't asked me about the occlumency again, but it's quite obvious from all of his piercing stares that he's not going to rest until he discovers the true depth of my power. Perhaps he's thinking of recruiting me for his little gang of followers.

He catches me on Friday after classes, reading a book, sprawled on a green velvet sofa in the Slytherin common room. "Evangeline," he says in greeting. Apparently we're now on first name terms.

"Good evening, Thomas," I say in reply, deciding to play along. So far, he's doing a reasonably good job of trying not to look too interested in my every breath, as if it might give away the answers he seeks.

"Were you planning on attending duelling as a mentor this year?" he asks smoothly. I twirl a lock of midnight hair around my finger absentmindedly and don't look up from my book. "Perhaps."

"You should go," he carries on, smirking slightly.

I pause, then slowly close my book before twisting on the sofa in order to face him fully. "And why might that be?" I drawl, regarding him lazily beneath raised brows.

He shrugs irreverently. "Someone with your skill set could be quite useful." Each word is carefully selected with intended meaning.

I roll my eyes but don't speak.

"I suggest," he begins slowly, "You tell me exactly what I want to know." The promise of violence laces every word.

I snort, and begin to pack my bag up. "I will do no such thing."

So swiftly that I barely see it, he pulls out his wand and rests it gently underneath my chin, crouching before me. I can't help it; my lips twitch into a little smile. "I would watch where you point that," I say vaugley.

"I would watch your mouth," he whispers back, his eyes glittering with icy rage.

Without warning, the door opens, and Abraxas Malfoy strolls in. Riddle is instantly on his feet a healthy distance away, wand nowhere in sight. Abraxas is tall, slim and pale as a fish's belly. His slicked back blonde hair does nothing to help this image. He's never been exceptionally bright, but he's by no means dim. He sees enough between me and Riddle to narrow his eyes somewhat, but the expression is gone quickly, and he nods respectfully to Riddle before sauntering towards his dormitory, no doubt keen to avoid the tension rippling in the air. I don't blame him. As soon as he is gone, Riddle turns back to me, but by now I have my own wand out, held loosely at my side. "As you were so concerned," I say sweetly, "I am, in fact, going to be attending duelling club."

"Perhaps you'd like to attend with me," he replies calmly, a suggestive smile already in place.

Frankly, I'd rather drink Gorgon blood, but I force myself to raise my chin and look him in the eye. "That would be fabulous." Let him think that he's won this round.

Little does he know that he's played right into my hands.


	2. Being my Fabulous Self

I get back late to the common room one night later that week. I'm so tired that I simply collapse on a sofa and fall instantly asleep. I'm not sure what I dream about, but I wake up screaming. I lie there for a second, panting slightly, trying to organise my thoughts. As my eyes focus, I see Tom is sitting on the couch opposite me with a strange expression on his face.

"Who is Harry?" he asks slowly.

"What?" I say, confused, my voice hoarse.

"Harry. That's what you were screaming."

I search my mind, but I can't remember anything. "I don't know," I say quietly.

He narrows his eyes. "Right."

I sigh and rub my hands over my face. "What time is it?"

He shrugs. "It's not light yet."

I sit up, then stand, wincing slightly. "If it's not yet light," I say decisively, "Then it's far too early to be awake. I'm going to go to bed."

"Isn't it a bit late for that now?" he asks, a little cynically.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes again, lest he think I have some sort of twitch. "Being this incredibly gorgeous doesn't just happen naturally, darling. I need my beauty sleep." I suppose I may be being a bit irritable, but I'm _tired_.

A thought suddenly strikes me. Tom is sitting here, fully dressed, looking completely unruffled. Does he never sleep?

"Why are you up, anyway?" I ask. The curiosity is genuine.

He shrugs. "I heard screaming. It sounded like somebody was being murdered."

I'm tempted to say _And you'd know about that, wouldn't you_, but I'm not even sure whether he's actually killed anyone yet. Instead, I study him for a moment before turning and heading into the girl's dorm.

Tom continues to sit next to me in Charms, and keeps glancing at my notes, even though he has far more detailed ones of his own. I think he's probably jealous of my handwriting.

"Have you remembered that it's duelling tonight?" he asks suddenly.

"No, Tom," I reply. "I'd completely forgotten. I really think you should've tried to remind me at least several more times a day. You'd have thought you almost wanted me to forget, only telling me every time we meet."

He flushes slightly but continues on. "I told Professor Merrythought that you and Malfoy have volunteered to do an example duel."

"Have you now. I can't honestly say that I'm surprised."

He shrugs indifferently. "We need to set a good example to the younger students."

I smile knowingly at him."Of course. And, naturally, we wouldn't want to put you in danger by setting you against me. Much easier to watch one of your lackeys get flayed alive."

"You underestimate me," he says darkly, a slightly menacing smile on his lips.

"Not at all," I say calmly. "In fact, I think I'm probably overestimating you by presuming that you'd have a chance."

"We'll see," he replies.

_You most certainly won't_, I think. There's no way I'd go full out on Malfoy, or even him.

Evening arrives, and I leave the dormitory to find Tom and Abraxas waiting in the common room for me, their cloaks slung over their shoulders. The greenish light seeping through the windows gives their pale faces an unearthly glow. Tom smirks, Abraxas offers a slightly softer smile.

"The rest of your minions not coming?" I ask Tom casually.

Abraxas looks a little affronted but Tom carries on smirking. "They're busy," he says.

"Of course they are," I mutter.

He offers his arm to me. "Shall we?"

"Thank you ever so much."

We step through the door and into the dark stone hallway beyond, our steps eerily magnified in the empty space.

"Honestly," I begin, my voice echoing slightly, "I'm feeling quite sorry for poor Abraxas. Especially since you volunteered him for this."

"What gave you that idea?" Tom counters, sounding vaguely amused.

"Intuition."

I know that Abraxas, trailing behind, can hear every word. I twist my head round to face him. "I have to say, Abraxas, that I am truly grieved that I will be forced to harm you. It's nothing personal."

"Killing is always personal," Tom drawls.

"Of course it is," I reply, slightly exasperated, "But I wouldn't dream of killing dear Abraxas. It might get blood on that lovely duelling stage they have. And besides, the Ministry is always taking that sort of thing so seriously these days."

Tom grins wickedly, which is not at all comforting. I don't look at Abraxas' face, but I can sense his incredulity and a tiny touch of fear. I doubt that this is the first little task Tom has forced him into doing and, with Tom's reputation, it won't be the last.

On our way towards the Great Hall, we pass a girl's bathroom down a torchlit hallway. Tom's eyes stray, ever so slightly towards it, as do my own. To anyone else, this might seem inconsequential, but to me, it's all the proof I need. I really ought to pay a long overdue visit to poor Aristomache: she must be getting so lonely down in that Chamber. Plus, I need to keep her out of Tom's hands. Goodness knows what havoc he would unleash if he got hold of her- havoc that would disrupt this world that I've become rather attatched to over the centuries.

Before I know it, we're entering the Great Hall. The tables have disappeared and the floor is crawling with students from first to fifth year. A few pinpricks of stars shimmer lazily in the voluminous black ceiling that seems to suck the light from the room despite the fat, flickering candles suspended underneath, so that their amber glow barely reaches the long duelling stage before it is snatched away.

We are ambushed immediately by Professor Merrythought: a thin, aging woman with prominent cheekbones. She smiles widley, displaying a good number of teeth, before seizing me and Abraxas.

"I can't tell you how grateful I am to you!" she exclaims with great energy. "It will be brilliant for our younger students to see a nice, advanced duel!"

"Fabulous," I mutter under my breath.

Tom winks at me, disentangles his arm and saunters away. It's so, so very tempting to use just a bit of wandless magic to make him trip, but I restrain myself. Instead, I content myself with imagining his face when I finally reveal my true identity. The look of shock is priceless.

Merrythought ushers us both on to the stage and stations us facing each other in the middle. Then she claps her hands loudly, the sound magnifying around the colossal chamber. Gradually, the rumble of talk desists and a blanket of silence descends on the students assembled.

"Now," Merrythought begins, her voice stark in contrast to the previous quiet. "We're very lucky this year to begin our duelling club with a short demonstration from some of our sixth year students who are taking Defence Against the Dark Arts for their NEWTs. Pay close attention and see if you can recognise any of the spells or techniques we practiced last year. And remember: train hard, and this could be you one day!"

She nods to me and Abraxas. He offers me a shaky smile, and I give him a rare genuine one in return. "Good luck," I say quietly. "You too," he whispers. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tom leaning casually against the wall, his trademark smirk still in place, watching us with silent intensity.

We bow to each other, turn sharply and take ten paces towards each end of the stage. Then we swivel to face each other again.

A moment of absolute stillness.

Nobody sees the first spell I cast. A quick look into Abraxas' mind and I suddenly know that he's unsure of what to cast first, unsure of how advanced to begin at. I take advantage of his momentary indecision and use _Expelliarmus, _a nice, simple spell to start with, just to get the duel going. Abraxas deflects it easily, quickly responding with a shout of _Incarcerous, _which I deal with just as easily.

To probably everyone's surprise but my own, it's Abraxas who decides to go big first, with an impressive hex that he casts without speaking.

It's oh, so very easy to deflect in equal silence.

I conjure a giant, writhing black snake just to make things a little more interesting. It takes Abraxas a little longer to overcome this: after a tiny pause he transfigures it into a huge water serpent, which he then directs at me. I summon a fierce wall of flame and the snake evaporates. This provides me with the perfect opportunity, as Abraxas is concentrating on my defense and doesn't expect me to use the shield of fire as a weapon. I send it racing towards him. He barely has time to produce a small shield of water, just enough to protect him. I dissipate the fire, and he vanishes the shield. But now he's drained and has his guard down. Casting _Expelliarmus_ again and catching his wand is the work of a moment.

The hall is silent, then erupts in applause. Professor Merrythought is smiling like a madwoman and clapping, but my eyes go to Tom, who hasn't moved. He's frowning, as if deep in concentration. I can practically read the words in his eyes:_ All too easy_. I quite agree with him, although I have to say, I did enjoy myself.

Abraxas, having been blasted backwards by the force of my spell, picks himself up off the ground and walks towards me shakily. I hold out his wand and he takes it, smiling slightly in gratitude. "How is it," he asks, "That you only just got an E in your OWLs? That performance deserved an O at least."

I shrug. "I suppose I just don't perform very well in exam conditions."

We head off the stage together, careful to avoid Merrythought (who looks as if she's about to explode with delight) and I make directly for Tom while Abraxas hangs back warily. He pushes off from the wall and strolls towards us, hands in his pockets.

"Congratulations," he says smoothly to me.

"A little more sincerity wouldn't go amiss, but thank you," I reply.

He laughs, a harsh, cold sound that doesn't suit him. He really should work on that- nobody will ever trust him with a laugh like that. I just wait.

"Apologies," he sneers finally, sounding anything but apologetic. "Now, shall we proceed with our mentoring duties?"

"I highly doubt that you have plans to spend the entire evening _mentoring_," I say mildly, "But, by all means, let us aid the small children in their quest to be almost as fabulous as us."

"Lead the way," he replies, smirking.

We spend half an hour going round the students, Tom generally being haughty and unhelpful and me actually trying to improve their abilities to some degree before Tom goes to Merrythought, expressing his _deepest apologies _but unfortunately we have _excessive revision_ that _simply must be attended to_. Of course, Merrythought is all gratitude and ushers us on our way with lots of emphasis on the importance of our studies and once again thanking us. Once we're out in the corridor, I ask whether Abraxas is leaving too. My voice sounds strangely quiet in comparison to the clamour of the hall.

"No," Tom says in answer to my question. "He wanted to stay and help."

I seriously doubt that _wanted_ came into it at all, but I don't comment. Instead, I let Tom lead us through the labyrinth of hallways, climbing several flights of stairs rather than taking the route to the dungeons. Contrary to his thoughts, which are all too evident, I know exactly where we're heading. Finally, we arrive on the seventh floor, across from the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

"Why are we here?" I ask when the silence stretches out.

"I want to show you something," he says softly, gazing intently at the bare stretch of corridor. Then he begins to pace back and forth, brow furrowed in concentration. When he eventually comes to a halt, a large, solid wooden door appears, seeming to mould itself out of the wall. He grins savagely and places a hand on the surface, reaching the other out towards me. I take it. His skin is cold, as cold as my own, and his grip tightens on me as he pushes the door smoothly and pulls me into the Room beyond. The door slams shut. I glance around, wondering what form the Room takes at his command and see a grand, high ceilinged space that resembles a private library, with lavish armchairs positioned by a fur rug in front of a smouldering fire. Everything has an air of grace and wealth, yet the dim lighting gives it an unnerving sense of mystery. And above the grand mantelpiece, positioned in the place of honour, is a portrait. A portrait of me.

Not of how I look now, of course, but a portrait of how I used to look, with dark, depthless eyes, sharp cheekbones and a thin, sneering mouth. My locket hangs from the portrait's neck, the serpentine S glittering slightly. I hadn't realised...

I hadn't realised how much Tom looked like me.

Not in physical features, of course. In appearance he is all his father. But the intensity of the gaze, the expression... It's the same.

He had to know. Tom had to know he was my descendant. No one looking at him and the portrait could say otherwise.

The portrait's eyes stray to my face and it smirks, just slightly. Enough to make me wonder if it knows.

Tom sees what has ensnared my attention and gazes up at it too. The reverence in his face as he beholds the portrait makes me uncomfortable. "The great Salazar Slytherin," he explains.

"I can see that." I realise too late that it came out a little sharp and amend it with "What is this place?"

"The Room of Requirement." He answers. "Essentially, its a magical room that takes whatever form I please. I'm probably the only one who knows about it."

"It's incredible," I say, in the interest of being nice, although I'm itching to say something sarcastic.

"Please," he says, gesturing to one of the armchairs. I gracefully lower myself into one of them, and Tom follows my lead. "So," he begins again, "did you enjoy yourself this evening?"

"Immensely," I reply, beginning to see where this conversation is going.

"You're very talented," he says, when it becomes clear that he's not going to get anything else out of me.

"Thank you."

"We- me and my friends, that is- could do with someone with your skills."

At least he's finally got to the point. "Don't lets pretend, Thomas," I say bluntly. "They are not your friends. They never have been. You see them as simply pawns to be moved as you see fit."

He's momentarily taken aback. Then he huffs an awkward half- laugh and turns his face away from me, smiling slightly self-consciously. "You're mistaken," he says after a moment.

"Am I?"

"Yes," he says, a bit forcefully, that strange half-smile still lingering on his face even as his brow furrows. I remain silent. After a moment, he gets up and begins to pace, then stops, staring at the wall covered in bookshelves. "Slughorn's holding a party tomorrow night," he states, still gazing intently at the books.

"I am aware of that." I reply.

He turns slightly to pierce me with his intense eyes. "Did you want to come with me?"

This is perfect. He's beginning to realise that I'm not another starstruck follower, dazzled by his looks and willing to do anything he asks. He's taking the time to win me over, which provides me with the optimal opportunity to befriend him, then use him to get what I came for.

"Okay," I say quietly. He nods, satisfied, and I take that as my cue to leave. I pause at the door momentarily, and see him standing, alone, the firelight dancing over his features. He looks so alone, so isolated, that suddenly I feel a surge of pity. He is my family, after all. "Goodnight, Tom."

He glances up and gives a quick, tight-lipped smile. "Goodnight, Evangeline."

I close the door behind me, dissatisfied with my sudden affection and care for him. _He is a tool,_ I remind myself. _It doesn't matter that you're related, he's just another person for you to use_.

Somehow, the thought isn't as comforting as it usually is.


	3. I develop Chronic Boredom

The next evening, I leave the girl's dorms to find Tom already waiting in the common room for me. Like me, he's wearing his dress robes, but his don't differ enormously from his usual schoolwear. They're black, and serve to highlight his pale complexion and icy blue eyes even more. Mine, on the other hand, are a deep, emerald green, embroidered with silver thread. At surface level, the green serves to bring out my eyes, but I know that Tom will connect the colour with my house emblem; yet another ploy to bring him closer to me.

"You look nice," he says; a meaningless, insincere greeting, and one which fails to appeal to my vanity, as I am well aware that I look absolutely gorgeous.

"I know," is all I say in reply. To be fair, at least I'm being truthful.

"Of course you do," he says, huffing a quiet laugh. I think he's begun to get used to my blunt, frank manner, even becoming slightly entertained by it.

We leave the common room together and walk towards Slughorn's office in silence. Just before the entrance, he pauses, and I stop with him. He braces a hand on the worn oak door."This is your first Slug Club party, isn't it?"

"Yes," I reply, grimacing somewhat at the name for Slughorn's little cadre. "Professor Slughorn's never taken much of an interest in me before." No need to mention that it was a conscious decision on my part.

Tom smirks slightly, pushing the door open in one smooth motion. "Try not to get too used to it," he warns.

I offer him a hateful little smile of my own. "I'll try," I say sweetly, and shove him out the way so that I can enter first.

Slughorn's office is bedecked in greens and golds, lit by fat, flickering candles amongst photographs of past students, the light glimmering off their gilded frames. A large, mahogany dining table occupies the centre of the room, set with glittering silverware and sparkling crystal cut glasses. Every inch of the scene oozes wealth, comfort and luxury, but without taste or true appreciation for expensive decoration. Before we can take more than two steps into the office, Slughorn himself ambushes Tom, shaking his hand vigorously. "Tom, m'boy! How wonderful to have you here!"

"Thank you, sir," Tom says coolly, preferring to simply acknowledge the man's attentions rather than bask in them.

"And you've brought a friend!" Slughorn continues energetically. "Miss- ah-"

"Chambers," I say, a touch frostily. "Evangeline Chambers."

"Of course, of course!" he exclaims. "Do come in!"

Tom raises an eyebrow at me. I frown back, and he shrugs, offering an arm to lead me to the table. Once we're both seated, I take the opportunity to look around at the other guests. All high fliers, all with exceptional talent in some area or another. I've always understood Slughorn's need to "collect" the successful whilst they're young in order to gain power and control, but found it rather tactless. Besides, his power relies entirely on the success on others rather than his own prowess. Personally, I've always preferred to rely on myself alone.

The evening passes disappointingly unremarkably. All of the other Club members spend the entire meal desperately trying to claw their way into either Slughorn or Tom's good opinion, generally fruitlessly. It's clear that Slughorn adores Tom, constantly complimenting his OWL results or his immaculate coursework in potions. He invites Tom to stay for coffee after dinner, but Tom, probably sensing my chronic boredom, refuses politely and escorts me out the office. I begin to make my way casually towards the seventh floor and Tom follows my lead. "Where are we heading?" he asks after a few minutes of silence.

"The Room of Requirement," I reply.

He nods, then, after a few more paces, says "Might I enquire why?"

"You said it attends to the user's every need?" He nods again. "Well," I continue, "I am in severe need of a drink."

He barks his odd, harsh laugh. It echoes eerily down the corridor. "So," he says, recovering, "You didn't enjoy the evening?"

"I enjoyed it about as much as I enjoy having someone repeatedly cast the Cruciatus curse on me."

I can see his mouth barley suppressing a wicked grin. "And do you have much experience with that?"

"More than you know," I say.

We reach the seventh floor corridor and I turn to Tom. "Will you do the honours?"

"Certainly," he replies, smirking.

He paces along the corridor until the door appears, then opens it, ushering me into the same room we were in before. Except this time, there are two empty glasses perched precariously on the mantlepiece. I glance at him, pasting a confused expression on my face. "Why empty glasses?"

"Didn't I mention?" he says in a falsely innocent tone. "The Room doesn't do food or drink."

I, of course, do already know this, given that I built the place, but I settle for glaring at Tom. His smirk only widens, but he steps back out the doorway. "I'll go and grab us something from the kitchens," he says, then closes the door behind him.

Perfect.

Slowly, I look up at the portrait dominating the feature wall. It's lips begin to curl into a cruel smile as it stares at me, eyes full of savage amusement. Then it speaks.

"Hello, Salazar."


	4. A Pleasant converation with Myself

Of course it knows. Of course the portrait knows.

I offer it my own, faint smile in response. "Hello yourself," I say. "You're looking particularly dashing today."

Its grin stretches even further. "So are you. Age has treated me remarkably well, it seems."

I let out a soft, quiet laugh. "How did you know?" We're both aware of what I'm referring to. Its sharp, discerning eyes- _my eyes_\- lazily flick over my new features and it tilts its head slightly as if trying to figure something out.

"I'm you," It says, as if this is completely obvious. Which, to be fair, it is, but it doesn't answer my question, so I choose to ignore it. "I'm assuming our wonderful descendant doesn't know?" it asks, when it becomes clear that I'm waiting for it to elaborate, leaning forward on its elbows and resting its chin on its pale, interlaced fingers. My golden locket sways slightly, glinting in the rich, dark folds of its robes.

"Of course not," I reply distractedly, my focus still captivated by the lustrous metal of the locket. Its eyes shrewdly follow my gaze, fixing on the medallion still swinging slowly like a pendulum.

"Oh," it says softly, as if in understanding, skeletal fingers tracing first the chain, then the locket itself before weighing it absentmindedly in one hand. "You want this."

My attention snaps back to the portrait's face. My face. For once, it is deadly serious.

"Don't tell Tom," I whisper, my face equally grave. Fear- real fear- suddenly kindles inside of me, a horrible cold feeling spreading from my heart into my blood. If Tom finds out about the locket, about why I need it-

No. He can't find out, and he won't. I will not let all my plans be ruined, even if it means destroying the portrait beyond magical repair and then sending it into another dimension for good measure. But the portrait just smiles, back to its usual manner. "I didn't tell him how to find the Chamber of Secrets. You think I'd tell him this?"

"He still found the Chamber anyway," I mutter.

"Because he's related to us. But _you_ stopped him being able to summon Aristomache." I don't ask how it knows this. It's true: I gave Aristomache specific orders not to answer to Tom. She may be there to obey the heir of Slytherin, but she is first and foremost loyal to me. Before I have time to answer the portrait, however, it cuts in again. "By the way, Tom's outside."

"I know," I reply irritably. He's been setting off my wards all over the place, the way he's been traipsing around the castle, trying to be stealthy. As if mobilised by my words, the door cracks open and Tom steps smoothly through, two bottles of firewhiskey dangling precariously from his fingers. He sees me standing, looking at the portrait, but doesn't immediately comment, instead effortlessly levitating one of the bottles towards me with a casual flick of his wand. I deftly pluck it out of the air and use my own wand to uncork it, ignoring the glasses and taking a swig straight out of the bottle. Tom wordlessly comes to stand by me and looks up at the once again silent portrait, a faint smirk lingering on its harsh mouth.

"We're related, you know," he says eventually. "Slytherin and I. On my mother's side."

I'm not surprised that he knows.

"And your father?" I ask. Dangerous territory- his father is probably a taboo subject. Indeed, as soon as I mention the word, he flinches. Nothing much, just a flicker in his eyes and the twitching of a muscle at the corner of his mouth. I can't blame him; I've never talked about my own father. Not even Godric knew the whole story.

"Dead." He replies shortly. And that's when I know. I'd suspected, but I hadn't wanted to acknowledge the truth- that Tom might be more like me than even I realised.

"Did you kill him." I say quietly. It's not quite a question. There's such an ache in my chest, such a familiar pain twisting my heart up in memories from a different life. Tom blanches and turns his head sharply to look at me, eyes wide with shock.

"Why would you say that?" He breathes, gazing down at me in astonishment and something more that I can't quite place. No denial. I shrug nonchalantly, ignoring the slight nausea. "No reason."

He shakes his head, still clearly bewildered, and takes a long drink from his bottle. Then he chuckles slightly. "Then," he says, carrying it off spectacularly, "to answer your question, no, I did not murder my father."

He's so good that if I hadn't been able to read his mind, I might've believed him. "That's a shame," I reply brightly. "A nice murder might have made you more interesting."

He chuckles and shakes his head again, but there's a wariness in his eyes that sucks all the genuine feeling from the gesture. "And what about your parents?"

Ouch.

"They live abroad, in Albania," I say casually. "My father works for the Ministry over there and my mother is in Necromancy research." Thank goodness I'm so proficient at occlumency, or Tom would've been able to tell that every single word of that sentence was a blatant lie.

"They're both magic, then," he states, somewhat wistfully.

"Yes," I say. Another outrageous lie. Tom just nods, then wanders over to the grandest armchair and sinks into it unceremoniously, drinking long and deep from his firewhiskey. I follow his lead and recline languidly into a chair of my own, kicking off my heels and folding my legs over of the arms. Idly, I summon one of the pristine crystal glasses and fill it to the brim, hoping to drown at least some of my more unpleasant recollections regarding my parents in the deceptively still liquid. Tom notices, and smiles faintly, but doesn't comment. After a long moment, he begins with "What do you know about the Chamber of Secrets?"

I choke on my latest gulp of firewhiskey and it scorches the back of my throat.

Then, regaining my composure, say "Lots of things. What do you want to know?"

He frowns. "How do you know about it?"

I sigh in exasperation. "Everything you need to know regarding that particular topic can easily be found in the school library, if you know where to look." No doubt that he's already read every book on the subject twice. Suddenly, I frown and sit upright, pretending to have a revelation. "Wait," I say suspiciously, "Why are you asking me this?"

His indifferent shrug is anything but reassuring. "Academic research?"

"Please, _please_," I groan, "tell me that you're not thinking of opening it."

When he doesn't reply, I close my eyes for a second and tip my head back, taking a deep breath. When I open them again, I look at him straight on and state bluntly, "That is literally the stupidest idea I have ever heard, for numerous reasons, generally associated with, but not limited to expulsion, attempted murder and a life sentence in Azkaban."

He raises an eyebrow smoothly and stares at me keenly. "You wouldn't want to get rid of the unworthy?"

I begin to feel the resurfacing of painful memories once more, and take a hasty sip of my drink. It doesn't help. I can still hear my own words ringing in my ears, words that I meant at the time but destroyed everything I cared about.

Unworthy.

I used that word, too. Among others. I remember every detail about that argument perfectly. I remember the looks on their faces. My feeling of betrayal. Helga's pleading. Godric's shouting. Rowena's disappointment.

I don't regret my views. My principles, my morals. I regret leaving, yes, and I regret everything I subsequently did in that life, but what I believed about muggles, about muggle-borns, was reasoned and just. True, I was biased on the subject, but I'd seen firsthand just what muggles were capable of, and I'd wanted to build Hogwarts to protect my people from them.

Now, though…

I suppose that times change. People change. Especially people with eternity to grow and adapt and learn.

"Unworthy is subjective," I say quietly, absently swirling my drink in the glass. Try as I might to hide it, pain laces every word.

Tom seems to sense the sudden change in my demeanour, as he pads over noiselessly and pries the glass from my hand, setting it on the small coffee table with surprising gentleness. "We should probably get back to the common room," he says kindly.

I don't know why it stings as I realise the kindness is fake. Another mask, designed to bring me closer to him.

"I'd rather just sleep here," I say wearily. The drink, rather than numbing the pain, only served to render me in low spirits, making me suddenly realise just how tired I am. Not just physically, but mentally as well. "It's late, and I can't be bothered to walk all the way back to the dungeons."

Tom scans my face for a second, then shrugs. "Okay." He backtracks to his armchair and sprawls across it, rubbing his eyes and yawning. It's the most human gesture I've ever seen him make. I stretch out elegantly like a cat before nestling into my own chair, leaning my head against the warm velvet of the backrest.

As sleep begins to take over, I glance back at the portrait out of the corner of my eye. It could be my imagination, but I swear its eyes are gleaming slightly. I just can't tell whether it's at the recollection of the argument or the mention of my parents.


	5. Why Basilisks make Terrible Pets

The next morning, I'm awoken by Tom shaking me, yelling at me. My eyes snap open and I bolt upright, gasping for breath, my chest heaving. I can feel the lingering presence of sweat coating my face, matting my long hair. Tom regards me warily, something akin to real fear overshadowing his eyes.

"Harry," I breathe, scouring my mind for anything to link me to that name. I've known many Harrys, but none of any significance. Yet that name is all that echoes in my head, over and over again._ Harry_.

Tom's eyes narrow. "You know who he is?" There's a strangely suspicious cast to his tone.

I shake my head, bewildered. "No." Tom looks sceptical, but doesn't push for more information. Instead, surprisingly, he comes out with: "I'm sorry if what I said last night- about the Chamber- upset you."

He's quite clearly not sorry. I tell him as much. Then I add "You didn't upset me. You just reminded me of someone I used to know." It's true. Tom's similarities to who I used to be- to the original Salazar Slytherin- are frightening. But that person doesn't exist anymore. He died long before he ever discovered the secrets of immortality.

"Whom?" he asks sharply. Genuine curiosity sparks in his eyes.

I grimace slightly and swing my legs off the arm of my chair. Groaning, I slide my feet back into my heels, wincing at the residual discomfort. "It was a long time ago," I say, determined not to let myself get lost in old memories again. Unable to resist the urge, my eyes dart momentarily to the portrait. It's face, for once, is stony, any emotion concealed by a carefully crafted façade.

Tom scowls slightly, his brows contracting in barely masked frustration. "Fine." He says stoically. Then, "Do you have any plans for today?"

"Actually, I do," I reply. "But nothing that will last me beyond lunchtime. We could go down to Hogsmeade together?" It's an olive branch. An offer of time, conversation and company.

He looks at me somewhat disbelievingly, as if he can't understand why I'd want to spend an afternoon with him. Then it dawns on me: most girls who ask to hang out with him are captivated by his looks, his charming manner. I've made it quite clear that I am taken by neither of those, therefore leading him to the conclusion that I genuinely like his company. Which is not technically untrue- I don't specifically _dislike_ talking to him- but it's tainted by the fact that I'm only here because I need him.

"I'd like that," he says. Perhaps I'm being overly optimistic, but I think that I can hear a sincere undertone in his voice.

"2 o'clock, in the courtyard. Don't be late."

The corner of his mouth tugs upwards in some semblance of an exasperated smile. "Of course not," he replies smoothly. I nod sharply, before pushing up to my feet and making my way to the door, wobbling precariously on my heels. If there's one thing I miss about being male, it's the lack of outrageously unsafe footwear. Heels, whilst looking absolutely fabulous, are undeniably detrimental to my feet.

"Evangeline," he says, when I'm halfway out the door. I pause, one hand lingering on the frame, and glance back at him, waiting. "How did you learn occlumency?" he asks, his voice falsely innocent.

"Very funny," I say, scowling at him, before strutting out the room and down the corridor, leaving the door slightly ajar behind me. I hear Tom sigh, and grudgingly stomp to close the door. A small smile graces my lips momentarily; I know it's petty, but I'm nothing if not vindictive. We were really having a nice moment there and then he had to go and ruin it.

I begin to walk briskly down the stairs, but at the second floor, instead of carrying on down to the dungeons, I turn off and amble casually down the hallway until I reach the girl's bathroom. Carefully, I slip inside, glancing back to check that Tom hasn't followed me. He hasn't, of course- I'd have sensed it if he had- but my paranoia compels me to double check everything.

Turning my head, I see only one other person in the bathroom: Myrtle Warren. Suddenly, I'm immensely glad that I'm currently female, heels or no heels. The ease of access to the Chamber was one of the deciding factors when I chose this body. Although, having said that, it was a rather rushed and panicked decision, thanks to my total idiot of a descendant, Merope.

Myrtle is sniffling obnoxiously in front of one of the mirrors, her glasses fogging up slightly as she dabs at her eyes with a crumpled and stained handkerchief. Why she doesn't just clean it with magic, I don't know, but then she is muggle-born. She's not used to having magic constantly at her command. I make sure my footsteps are loud and echoing as I stride across the worn flagstones towards the sinks so that she notices my presence, then proceed to busy myself with fixing my makeup in front of the mirror.

"Oh," she snivels weakly. I cringe internally as she screws up the soiled handkerchief and hastily stuffs it down her sleeve. "Chambers. I-I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in. I'm just going myself actually, so-"

I cut across her mindless babbling. "Oh, there's no need for that."

She blinks. "Really?" Her voice is still clogged with tears.

"Of course," I say gently. "Besides, you can't possibly go out looking like that. You'll cause a riot. People will start to think a night troll's been let loose on the school."

For a moment, she says nothing, simply looking extremely taken aback. Then she begins with "I-"

I interrupt her again. "I mean, _please_, do something about your hair, if nothing else. The face, I suppose, can't be helped, but it could certainly benefit from some improvement. Here, allow me." And I pull out my wand, twirl it between my fingers expertly, then cast a few simple charms, ones I could do in my sleep, onto a still bemused Warren. Nothing much, just enough to clean her face and add the slightest hint of makeup, brush and style her hair, and straighten her clothes. Oh, and polish her glasses, which are so grimy she must walk round in a perpetual fog. "There!" I announce, once done. "Now no one need be afraid of a night troll in the castle." Myrtle doesn't move, rooted to the floor in shock. I smile encouragingly, but let a dangerous glint into my eyes. "Run along, now!"

Taking the hint, she scampers out the bathroom with a harried "Oh, yes- thank you ever so much- yes, I'll just-"

I sigh, linger a few more seconds at my mirror (using my wand to remove a stubborn smudge of mascara) then, with another glance behind me, casually sidle over to the next sink along. The bathroom falls oddly silent, as if a thick blanket smothers the whole room, as my deterring and muffling wards lock into place with a flick of my finger. Reaching out, I grasp at thin air, then slowly draw my hand across as if carefully closing a heavy curtain, allowing an illusion to ripple into place, showing the bathroom as normal. I deliberately drop my wand, giving me an excuse to bend down to retrieve it. Once I'm eye level with the taps, my gaze falls instinctively on the miniature snake engraved on the side, and I smile softly at it.

_"__I'm back, darling," _I whisper in Parseltongue.

The tap glows a brilliant white, then begins to spin rapidly. Next, with a soft groaning and scraping of ceramics, the sink descends into the flagstone tiles, leaving an open pipe, like a gaping maw, facing up at me. _Scourgify_, I think, pointing my wand towards it. Just in case. The Chamber isn't exactly the most clean or sanitary of places, and I'm ready to bet that Tom doesn't take off his shoes when using the pipe on his fruitless missions to summon Aristomache.

Determined to show more appreciation for cleanliness than Tom, I remove my killer heels and send them into a little pocket between dimensions for safekeeping. I'll probably just summon new shoes or cast a levitating charm once I'm in the Chamber. Delicately, I lower myself to the cool, tiled floor and swing my legs over the lip of the pipe. Then, with a push, I'm off, sliding as gracefully as possible. Once I near the end of the pipe, I slow myself down with a whisper of _aliquantulus morabor_, so that by the time I reach the pipe's limit, I can simply slide to a stop and effortlessly emerge into the Chamber.

I make sure to cast _gradus in aerem_, an invention of my own, before my feet hit the floor. It's a useful little spell that allows me to walk a few inches above the ground, sparing my feet from the disgusting cesspit that has become this antechamber's flooring decoration. When I first built the Chamber, it was spotless, with glittering black walls and a subtle green glow. Yet now, I am once again slapped in the face by how utterly incompetent my descendants have turned out to be. Clearly, not enough of them had any comprehension of tidiness or presentation. The only reason I don't give the entire place a much-needed makeover is because I think Tom might become mildly suspicious, given his arrogant belief that he's the only person since myself to use the Chamber.

Further along the tunnel, round a tight bend, I come across the dead end where two entwining serpents are carved, their emerald eyes issuing a faint light. "_Open_," I say softly in Parseltongue. The snakes part smoothly, the wall cracking open between then and sliding noiselessly out of sight, revealing the heart of the Chamber: a long, eerily lit hall, supported by towering columns engraved with writing serpents, so lifelike they could have been the victims of a cockatrice, or perhaps a gorgon. And at the very end of the Chamber stands the crowning glory: a colossal statue of myself, ancient and staggeringly powerful. Looking at it, it's hard to suppress a smile. I had quite a flair for the dramatic at that time, and had felt that it would be a good idea to place such an egotistical monument in my own private hideaway for all my descendants to gaze at in awe. The face is just about barely recognisable as me, betraying some resemblance to the portrait in the Room of Requirement, but more lined and weathered, the depthless eyes blank and unseeing.

I stand before the statue, waiting. I begin to tap my foot impatiently, then realise at the lack of any sound that I'm still floating on thin air, so stop and cross my arms instead. The Chamber is totally silent except for the gentle lapping of water. No sign of Aristomache. Eventually I give in to her stubbornness and throw my arms up in exasperation. "_What are you waiting for?_" I hiss irritably.

Silence. Then, "_For an apology_," comes the reply. Aristomache's voice echoes around the chamber, dripping with ire.

I roll my eyes. "_Fine_," I spit out sourly, incensed by her obstinacy. "_I'm terribly sorry, dear, dear Aristomache, for not coming to visit you more often._" I pause for a moment. "_Will that do?_"

Another long silence. At last, I hear the faint scrape of scales against stone and Aristomache slithers into view, eyes carefully averted. "_For now_," she says primly. "_You look terrible_," she adds wryly a moment later.

"_Hilarious_," I reply scathingly.

Her lips peel back from her yellowed fangs in a twisted, savage grin. "_Why have you come to visit?_" she asks. "_You only ever drop by when you need something_."

I gasp in mock outrage. "_Can't I just come to check that you're alright?"_

"_I wish you would_," she mutters bitterly. "_That moron Tom comes to see me more than you do."_

I shake my head in disbelief. _"I rescue you from Muggles, I raise you by hand, I build you a lovely chamber and this is all the thanks I get?"_

She hisses at me with mulish attitude, then tells me exactly where I can go and stick her thanks in far too much graphic detail.

_"__Language!"_ I scold. Aristomache, despite being almost as old as me, never really got over being a teenager. Except her grumpy and wilful insolence comes equipped with razor-sharp fangs, deadly poison and a literal death-stare.

_"__But now that you mention it,"_ I continue, somewhat sheepishly, _"there was something I was wondering if you could help me with."_

I'm pretty sure that if she was able to look at me without killing me, she would roll her eyes. _"What now?"_ she asks resignedly.

_"__Well,"_ I begin. _"I'm almost certain that Tom's trying to make a horcrux-"_

_"__Idiot,"_ mutters Aristomache.

_"__-so, just to be on the safe side, I think that a few flasks of venom may be in order. Oh," _I add as an afterthought _"and don't kill anyone for him."_

If basilisks had fingers, I'm fairly confident that a few of Aristomache's would be up in my face right about now. _"Fine,"_ she grumbles. Then: _"Not even a small kill?"_

_"__Darling," _I say, _"You can kill whomever you wish to. Just not on Tom's orders."_


	6. Gurdyroot Shots and Ancient Bookshops

Tom, surprisingly, is as good as his word, and arrives in the courtyard at precisely 2 o'clock. The afternoon is bright and sunny, but with the unmistakable bite of frost in the air. The few small saplings that litter the courtyard are already succumbing to the slight chill of early autumn, their leaves beginning to transform into the fiery, glittering ornaments that will before long bedeck their bony fingers like jewellery. Despite the wicked sparkle of ice draped thinly across the worn cobbles, Tom strides confidently towards where I am perched on the savagely cold stone lip of the fountain. We're both dressed casually in Muggle clothing, but with our cloaks slung over the top to keep out the cold. I smile to greet him without thinking, then let it drop almost immediately, puzzled at when I became so glad of his presence. I put it down to loneliness; I deliberately go out of my way not to make friends, not to get attached, so it's natural that I occasionally crave the company of people other than Aristomache. He stops before me, and I rise to meet him. "Shall we?" he asks politely, a hint of a smirk lingering on his features.

"Of course," I reply just as smoothly, and take his proffered arm. His touch offers no body heat, as if his very blood is icy. But then, I suppose, my skin is equally cold, although that's due to the way my bodies are crafted.

We walk a short way in companionable silence before Tom breaks it to ask me what I had in mind to do in Hogsmeade. "I thought we could go to the Three Broomsticks for a drink," I say absently, my focus mainly held by keeping up a small heating charm on myself. "Then, we can do whatever you want. There's plenty of interesting shops. I've actually been meaning to buy some books from Tomes and Scrolls myself."

He raises and eyebrow, intrigued. "What kind of books?" he enquires.

I decide to reply with the truth. "Divination. Prophetic dreams, specifically."

"Why?" he probes. "You didn't take Divination for your OWLs."

I shrug. "Just a hobby. Hopefully I'll be able to make a prophecy by the end of the year."

He chuckles, somewhat disbelievingly. "You believe in prophecies? I thought they were all just made up. Nonsense to lure in gullible people."

I turn my head sharply to look at him. "You narrow-minded imbecile," I state, as if talking to a child. "Of course prophecies are real. As are all the other forms of Divination. It's a complex art, and few people have the gift, but that makes it no less real. I've known several Seers personally."

His eyebrows lift in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes," I reply. "There was one woman I met that, every time she saw someone for the first time, she would have a vision of their death." I sigh, and watch my breath cloud in the air. "It can be a terrible gift to have."

Tom's eyes narrow in curiosity. "Did she see your death?" he asks, after a moment.

"Undoubtedly," I reply offhandedly.

He waits for me to continue, then tries to prompt me to say more. "And?"

I laugh. "Tom," I say. "Do you really think she'd tell me? And for what- to have me struggle against an inescapable fate all my life? No. I'm better off not knowing." No need to mention the fact that I was still so afraid of death that I did everything in my power to avoid it. And now, thanks to his fool of a mother, my immortality is in jeopardy.

"I suppose," he muses, but I get the feeling that he would've wanted to know how he dies, just so that he could avoid it.

Before long, we reach the Three Broomsticks. It's a wonderfully warm haven on a day like today, the crackling log burner in the corner offering a welcome source of heat. I notice several curious glances from other students being directed our way as we enter together, especially from those in our year. I suppose that this is the first time we've been seen together out of school; sitting together in class is one thing, but this is entirely another. I grimace at the thought of all the rumours that will no doubt be circulating within a few minutes. Carefully, I disentangle my arm from Tom's and tell him to find a table whilst I go to the bar to order our drinks.

"Do you need some money for mine?" he asks. There's a bitter undertone to the question, and I remember that he has no fortune of his own, no vault in Gringotts. All his money must be provided by the Ministry's trust fund, an amassing pot of wealth for poorer students set up initially by myself, when I was twenty-eight. I suppose I wanted to make sure that children like me, born with nothing, could still have a shot at greatness at the school I built. It feels gratifying to know that, over nine hundred years later, my legacy still continues on. Even if I'm more famous for my attempts to prevent muggleborns entering Hogwarts.

Something swells within me, then, for Tom, and I realise that it's sympathy. No, not sympathy; empathy. I know, too, how it feels to have nothing in the world. Godric never understood- and, how could he? He spent his entire life wealthy and loved. He never knew what it was to be destitute.

"Don't be ridiculous," I tell Tom. "I'm paying." And when he begins to protest, I say "Listen. I'm absolutely loaded. I have more money than I could possibly need, so please help me to get rid of at least some of it." It's true. I have fifty-three Gringotts vaults, each piled high with gold and jewels.

He relents, and I walk over to the bar, unravelling my long green-and-silver scarf as I go. The landlady, a plump, round-cheeked young woman with a healthy, ruddy complexion, greets me, smiling jovially. I think for a minute, then remember that her name is Mademoiselle Auberge. I recall distinctly when her mother bought the inn, about forty or so years ago. At the time, I was a tall, broad-shouldered man named Raymond Barnett, whose eyes I recollect particularly for being this wonderful stormy grey. It took me absolutely ages to perfect the colour.

"What can I get you?" she asks, in her lilting, musical voice. I smile winningly back.

"Two Butterbeers, please," I return. "Oh, and a couple of shots of Gurdyroot gin." I glance slyly over at Tom, who is now reclining on his chair in his usual languid fashion. Sensing my attention, he mouths _What?_, brows furrowed. I smile wickedly and shake my head. Then, just because I can, I reply _Nothing, _straight past his occlumency shields and into his mind. His knee bangs against the table as he sits upright too fast, shock registering for a fleeting second before it vanishes smoothly into his façade with practiced ease.

I pay Mademoiselle Auberge out of a heavy, velvet purse, then deftly levitate my drinks tray to carry it to the table. Tom's eyes follow me intently, burning with an almost livid curiosity and disbelief. He waits until I'm seated, then bursts out in a furious whisper "You're a legilimens _too_?"

_If you're going to talk_, I think to him, _do it in your mind. Legilimency is not a talent I try to advertise._

He still looks infuriated, but catches on, trying to use his own legilimency to speak to me. I let down my guard of occlumency just enough for him to do so.

_And when were you going to tell me?_ he asks, anger rippling more through his thoughts than his face.

_I just did_, I reply casually. _Oh, try some of the Gurdyroot gin. It's an acquired taste, but I rather enjoy it._

He ignores me. _Who taught you?_ he persists.

I pause, swirling my gin around in the shot glass, then swiftly knock it back, relishing in the line of fire down my throat. _No one_, I answer, deciding not to dance around the truth any longer. _I taught myself_.

He looks rather taken aback. _Me too_, he divulges, after a moment.

There's a short lapse into silence, then I begin speaking out loud again. My voice sounds jarringly loud, even in the buzz of the inn. "I meant it about the gin. Try it."

He hesitates, watching me keenly, but does as I suggest, reaching for the glass slowly but downing it rapidly.

I wait, smirking uncontrollably.

He chokes, gasping for air, his eyes widening. A rare flush creeps up his neck as he continues to cough for a few more seconds. Then the worst of the inferno releases its hold on his throat, leaving him winded and breathless and more than a little undignified. I cackle wickedly at the priceless expression on his face.

He clears his throat, the half-flush dying down. "An acquired taste?" he says civilly, a menacing undertone to his voice, but for the first time, I sense that it's in jest.

"You'll get used to it," I assure him.

We stay in the inn until the last dregs of our Butterbeers are drained, then wander out into Hogsmeade's streets. I ask Tom if there's anywhere he wants to go, but he replies that the bookshop is fine, so that's where we head.

I favour Tomes and Scrolls over its Diagon Alley counterpart, Flourish and Blotts, mainly due to the availability of more advanced and niche spellbooks. Inside, it has a dry and dusty atmosphere, the towering bookshelves dimly lit by sputtering oil lamps. The scent of ancient parchment permeates the store, mingling with the enduring sense of power radiating from the books. Unsurprisingly, Tom instantly gravitates towards a small, shadowy corner on necromancy, running his long, thin fingers over the gilded spines.

_Why necromancy?_ I ask him mutely.

_Why divination?_ He enquires in equal silence.

_Fair enough_, I think, and leave it at that.

I feel, more than see, the faint smile tugging at his lips.

Turning my attention back to the divination section, I trace the titles absentmindedly, looking for anything that sparks an interest. My pursuit of divination knowledge is not new or sudden; I've been trying to learn the art at a leisurely pace for about twenty years now, but the particular fascination with prophetic dreams stems from my suspicion that my recent nightmares perhaps hold some significance. I can't see any other reason why I would abruptly, without warning, experience recurring dreams about a mysterious Harry that I've never met.

My focus snatches on a small, leather-bound tome, inscribed with gilt symbols down the spine. It's the language that snags my notice; an ancient Greek dialect, one I recognise as being used around the Delphi region about three thousand years ago. I crook my finger at it, and it slides out, dropping easily into my outstretched hand. The embossed cover reads: Η προφητεία των ονείρων, meaning something along the lines of "The Prophecy of Dreams".

It feels heavy in my hand, heavier than it should be based on appearance. I open it carefully, allowing the aged and yellowed pages to gently fall apart, revealing the mass of crammed symbols and diagrams within. I leaf through deftly, observing the swathes of script, all in the same dialect as the title. The book has a faint but cloying scent of incense and herbs, the pages strangely warm to touch, as if heated by some lingering, ageless power.

A miniscule, stylised drawing in the corner of one of the pages catches my eye. It depicts a large, snake-like creature lying at the bottom of some sort of crevasse, or fissure. Simple lines denote some kind of fumes wafting upwards from the serpent towards a crude three-legged stool on the surface. It's captioned: πύθειν, which I think roughly translates as "to rot".

Suddenly it dawns on me. This is a sketch of the site of Pythia, or the Oracle of Delphi. The serpent is the legendary Python, allegedly slain by the god Apollo, the stool is where the Oracle once sat and the fumes are the _pneuma_: a sickly-sweet scent coming from the decay of Python's body.

I buy the book immediately.

To his credit, the wizened store owner makes no comment on my purchase, instead offering to look for some similar books for me. He's back before long, loaded with archaic volumes. I flick through a few of them, then just decide to buy the lot.

By the time I'm finished and stuffing the last of the books into my handbag, charmed with an undetectable engorgement spell, Tom has at last settled on purchasing a small but thick manuscript bound in black leather and stamped with tiny, silver letters.

"What's yours about?" I ask him as we leave the shop.

He smiles furtively. "Things far beyond your understanding."

"Try me," I reply dryly, more than a little irked by his answer.

He stares straight ahead, into the distance, frowning slightly. I peer into his mind, and see that he's debating whether to tell me. He's not sure if he can trust me, but confiding in me is ultimately beneficial to his cause if he wants me to join his followers.

I say nothing, waiting.

At last, on a more deserted strip of road, he turns to me, scrutinising my face. Then, he says, "What do you know about Horcruxes?"

**Author's note: Congratulations on getting this far! I felt like it was about time I wrote an author's note, so here it is. First off, thank you to all my wonderful readers. It means the world to me that you're taking the time to read and (hopefully) enjoy my work.**

**Secondly, feel free to leave a review, if you are so inclined- especially if you spot any spelling mistakes I've missed :)**

**Love you all,**

**Amy Grace xx**


	7. My Questionable reading habits revealed

I gaze off into the distance, not looking at him, as if I can see all the way to my cavern filled with host bodies, deep in the mountains. I knew this conversation would come- someday. I just didn't expect it to arrive so soon.

"Plenty," I say vaguely. The haunting memory of an ancient mirror and the temptations lingering within the clouded glass occupies my thoughts.

He peers at me with intense eyes. "What do you know?" he presses.

"I know," I reply, a bit sharply, "that they're the stupidest way to become immortal. There are at least three other methods that I know of, and none of them involve ripping your soul apart and leaving it lying around in a destructible object."

He opens his mouth, as if about to speak, then closes it again, his brow furrowing. After a moment, he decides to say "What are the other ways?"

I sigh inwardly, both exasperated and slightly amused by his blatant thirst for power. _If we're going to talk about this_, I think, _Let's do it somewhere a little more secluded._

His mind is in turmoil with a sudden influx of rapid questions, but he manages to gain some control and think out:_ Fine_. He's clearly not very fine with it.

We walk, at a somewhat faster pace this time, back towards Hogwarts. Tom lets me lead, and I make my way to the edge of the lake, finally perching on a lip of cold, hard ground overlooking the huge, flat expanse of dark water. I brush my hand absentmindedly over the frosted grass, enjoying the sharp bite of ice on my palm as I gaze at the heavy afternoon sunlight rippling off the lake's surface, like golden tarnishes on a depthless black mirror.

Tom slumps down unceremoniously beside me. I wrinkle my nose at his lack of grace and elegance, but ultimately decide that he must get it from his father, so can't be helped.

"So, tell me, Thomas," I say, a touch patronisingly, "How much do you actually think you know about Horcruxes?"

He bristles at my tone, but manages to stay proud and arrogant as always. "Plenty," he replies haughtily. I raise my eyebrows at that. "I know," he continues, "that you use a Horcrux to contain a piece of your soul that has been split apart from the whole. I know that you split your soul by killing someone and then using a ritual to contain it in an object. And I know that with a Horcrux, you can never truly die."

"Tom," I say slowly, faintly bewildered by his complete lack of common sense and good judgement. "I'm not sure that you quite comprehend the dangers of splitting your soul. The soul is a delicate and mysterious thing. It is not designed to be ripped apart."

He seems marginally taken aback. "But with a Horcrux," he insists, "you can never die! You'd be immortal."

I struggle for a second to find a way to explain to him why splitting your soul is probably the stupidest thing you can to in pursuit of immortality. "Tom," I repeat. "Ripping off a chunk of your soul in order to be immortal is like cutting off your own leg in order to lose weight. You've gained the desired effect in both cases, but at what cost?"

A faint flush rises steadily up his neck. "Well," he says defiantly, "you said you know three better ways to achieve immortality. What are they?"

I'm glad to see that I've begun to sow doubts into his mind about the reliability of Horcruxes, but there's still a long way to go in persuading him that immortality is not all he thinks it will be. I lean back, bracing myself with my hand and squint at the slowly dying sun over the mountains. The fading light casts a faint, reddish shadow over Tom's porcelain face, catching his glacier-blue eyes and making them burn with an intense, cold flame.

"There are four ways that I know of to achieve immortality, or at least, relative immortality," I begin. "The first, of course, is using Horcruxes, which is extremely ill advised, due to the dangerous nature of soul-splitting and the vulnerability of Horcruxes to certain substances. Therefore, Horcruxes don't actually make you immortal, they just make you significantly harder to kill."

I look at Tom to see him listening with rapt interest and an almost fervent curiosity. I'm slightly unsettled, but decide that telling him about this is ultimately beneficial to my cause.

"The second way is drinking the elixir of life from a Philosopher's Stone. This does prolong your life, as long as you continue to regularly consume it, but does not prevent ageing and you can still be killed.

The third way is using rebirth." I pause at this point, wondering how much to tell Tom about my chosen method for immortality.

"It involves very complex necromancy and can take decades to fully master enough to be reborn even once, but essentially you have to tie your life force to this world, usually through an object of some kind. Not unlike a Horcrux," I say, seeing the question arise in his mind, "but without the soul-splitting and infinitely less destructible. This object has to then be an active link between you and the living, often by being kept in the reborn person's bloodline as a kind of heirloom. Once this is established, you can create host bodies to be reborn into each time you die. This way, you don't ever have to grow old, if you don't want to." I pause, and then, seeing the hunger in Tom's eyes, hastily add, "Of course, this only works as long as the object remains in your family and it is possible, though unlikely, that the object can be destroyed."

Tom nods, his face aglow with ardent fascination, his fierce eyes never leaving my face. "And the final way?" he asks eagerly.

"The final way," I say slowly, "is the only way to achieve true immortality. With all the other paths, death is possible, but this way, you can never die, even if you want to." I sigh, remembering the anguished face of a foolish young man, trapped forever in the land of the living, but eternally unable to partake in it. He was right to warn me away from true immortality. "However," I begin again, looking sternly at Tom, "this is no gift. Yes, you achieve eternal life, but you lose everything else in the process. Your corporeal form, your free will, your ability to affect the world around you." I shake my head sadly. "That is no life. Death would be preferable to existence without true life."

"Yes," Tom says, "but how would you do it? Theoretically."

I blink at him. "Did you not hear a word I just said?"

He shrugs. "I'm just curious."

I'm seriously tempted to push him into the lake. However, I resist, and decide to answer his question like a mature adult. "_Theoretically_," I say, "one would have to complete some sort of ritual in order to separate the soul and mind in their entireties from the physical body, whilst keeping them anchored through some kind of binding spell to the Earth. That way, you would be able to exist in an intangible form in the physical world."

Tom frowns, trying to grasp the concept. Then he says "So you'd basically just be a ghost?"

I ponder for a moment. I've never thought about it like that before, but now that I do, I see that the two forms of existence are remarkably similar. "Yes, sort of like a ghost, in that way that you have no true body. Except," I say, thinking it through as I speak. "no, not really like a ghost at all. For one, ghosts are dead. And for another, ghosts are generally visible to the living and can interact with them. Also, ghosts actually can, very rarely, pass on to the afterlife. With ethereal existence, no form of death is possible."

Despite my best efforts, this still doesn't really seem to be such a bad thing in Tom's mind. I suppose only the immortal can truly understand how death can become welcome after a long life.

"And how, exactly," Tom says suddenly, suspicion lacing his voice, "do you know about this?"

I roll my eyes. "What do you think I do in class instead of studying?"

He frowns again. "You've been doing the work whilst I've been sat next to you."

I give him a pointed look. "Exactly."

"Oh," he says, in abrupt realisation. Then he grins wickedly. "Well, don't let me stop you reading up on satanic rituals during Binns' lessons."

I laugh, half out of surprise as I grasp the fact that he's joking. Tom Riddle, dark lord supreme, is trying to be funny. And succeeding, which is more the wonder. "Satanic rituals are the least of your problems. You should see my books about sacrificial rites."

Now it's his turn to laugh, except this time, he doesn't make that horrible, high, cold sound. Instead, it's lower, richer, more earnest. A real laugh- or as close to one as he can get. I smile, glad to see him relaxed for once and -more importantly- not thinking about Horcruxes.

"But seriously," he asks, "Why don't you study in class?"

I shrug, picking up a smooth, round pebble and tossing it aimlessly into the lake. Receding sunlight dances on the gentle ripples it makes. "Perhaps school is beneath me."

He smirks. "That, I don't doubt." He follows my lead and picks up a pebble of his own, pitching it into the water. "But why don't you have any friends?" The undertone isn't malicious, rather simply curious.

I raise my eyebrows. "What makes you think I don't have any friends?"

"The fact that you're always alone," he replies smoothly. "You never do anything with anyone else unless you absolutely have to."

Maybe Tom has been observing me more closely than I anticipated. Ironic, since I've been the one watching him since his mother died. "True," I say. "Perhaps friends are beneath me, too. Merlin knows you think they're beneath you."

"I have friends," Tom protests.

"We've been through this, Tom," I say patiently. "You have followers. Not friends."

His brows narrow together somewhat even as a corner of his lips tugs upwards, as if he's as confused by my words as he's amused by them. "What are we then?" he asks.

_Family_, by mind says unhelpfully. Fortunately, I have enough self-control to employ occlumency to prevent him seeing that word in my head.

"Indifferent acquaintances?" I suggest.

He has the gall to look a little put out by that. "We could be friends," he offers, to my eternal shock.

"Unfortunately," I say, still recovering, "I don't think you have the temperament."

Laughter glitters in his sharp eyes, but I still glimpse cunning lingering in their icy depths. Whatever his endgame is with me, it certainly isn't friendship. But friendship is definitely an important stepping stone on the way to my endgame with him, so I decide to play along with his little game for the time being. He grins and shrugs at me, blissfully unaware of my ulterior motive when it comes to him. "Maybe. But we could still try."

I look out over the lake at the setting sun, silhouetting the rugged mountains with a backdrop of blazing crimson, then back at Tom. His eyes reflect the scarlet of the sky.

"Okay," I say.


	8. I drink Far Too Much liquor

My tentative friendship with Tom begins well. Although he's still arrogant, cold and a touch psychopathic, I find myself inexplicably enjoying his company. He spends his time almost exclusively with me, to the chagrin of most of the school's female- and male- population, and I am accosted on nearly a daily basis by people I have never spoken to before asking if we are dating.

The nightmares about Harry persist, so I begin to use unorthodox divination methods that I find in my newly purchased books, including inhaling an unhealthy amount of fumes before I go to bed, in an attempt to clarify the meaning of my dreams. It works.

In my dream, Hogwarts is burning. There is rubble everywhere, great chunks of stone ripped from the castle walls. Every window is smashed, the fragments of glass glittering corridors. The staircases are slick with blood.

I run out of Hogwarts, and towards the forest. The trees are silent for once. I speed up, and I somehow know where I'm going, and what I'll find when I get there.

Then I'm in a clearing, and its empty, except for a body on the floor. I already know whose it is, but I go to it, screaming its name. His name. Because I know him, somehow. He is dead, and I know this too even before I roll his body over and shake his thin shoulders, looking into his unseeing green eyes.

Then I wake up screaming.

It's why I've taken to sleeping away from my dormitory. I usually go to the Chamber, or else the Room of Requirement. Sometimes Tom finds me in the Room, and holds me and strokes my hair and tells me its okay. Sometimes he doesn't.

The first hitch in our friendship comes in the days leading up to the Halloween Ball.

It's one of Slughorn's extravagant ideas, of course, but instead of being exclusively for the Slug Club, its open to all the NEWT students. At a school with disappointingly few extra-curricular activities and social events, the ball is held in much anticipation by the student body.

Given that I have attended the last four Slug Club events with Tom, and the fact that I'm his only friend, I think Tom takes it for granted that I will be going to the ball with him. What he does not do, unfortunately for him, is actually bother asking me.

I'm not sure why it irritates me so much. Perhaps its because of the possibility that he might think he's won me over, and now doesn't need to put effort in. Which is dangerous, because then I'm no more to him than another one of his pawns.

By the time the ball is only two days away, I've had enough. I determine to get a date as quickly as possible, and preferably one that will annoy Tom the most. Unfortunately, I think the entire school assumes that Tom and I will be going together, so I haven't been asked by anyone, probably for fear of Tom's wrath.

Deep in this train of thought, I wander aimlessly down the hallways until eventually arriving at the Slytherin common room. Tom stayed back in potions to talk to Slughorn, so I am finally alone and free to make my move. I push open the door to the common room, having given the password, and have to actively stop myself grinning as I see who sits within.

Abraxas Malfoy is the only one in the room, perched delicately on a chair and reading. It's all too perfect.

"Hey," I say, taking a seat across from him.

He puts down his book, and looks up. If he is surprised to see me, he doesn't show it. "Hello," he replies politely.

I decide to get straight down to business. "Are you going to the Halloween Ball?" I ask.

He shrugs indifferently. "I suppose."

"Going with anyone?" I press.

"I was planning on going with a few of the guys," he replies casually. "You're going with Tom, I imagine?"

"Actually, Tom hasn't asked me," I say, a touch frostily. "So technically, I'm open to invitation."

There is a short pause as Abraxas eyes me warily. Then he shrugs again. "Did you want to go with me?"

"Yes," I say. And that's that.

The night before the ball, there is a group of us in the common room: several of Tom's cronies (including Abraxas), a few girls and Tom himself. I stand to leave, and Tom glances at me over his shoulder.

"Tomorrow night," he begins lazily. "I'll meet you at seven?" It sounds more like an order than a question.

"Why?" I ask innocently.

"The Ball," he replies automatically, already turning back to the group at the table.

I pause, and deliberate for a second. Then I say: "Why would I be going to the Ball with you?"

The table goes quiet. Tom turns slowly around to face me. "Why wouldn't you be?" he asks, his eyes beginning to glitter dangerously.

"Perhaps because you haven't actually asked me yet," I reply coldly.

"Fine." He shrugs nonchalantly. "Will you go to the Ball with me."

"No," I say, and begin to walk away.

"No?" he says incredulously.

"Somebody's already asked me," I state casually, still heading towards the dormitories.

"And you said yes?"

"Naturally," I reply. I don't have to look back around to picture Abraxas' deep discomfort.

There is a moment of silence. Then Tom blurts "Who?"

"_Whom_," I correct. "And you'll find out soon enough."

Then I leave before Tom can say anything else.

Apparently, Tom and I are not speaking. There is a horrible silence between us the day of the ball, and he pointedly ignores me in all of our classes together, which I think is extremely petty.

At six o'clock, I get dressed and do my makeup. At seven, I meet Abraxas in the common room. Tom is nowhere to be seen.

"You look beautiful," Abraxas comments sincerely when he sees me. "I like your dress."

"Thank you," I reply. "So do I." The dress in question is black, and long, and more than a little daring, given how much of my back it exposes. I am fully intending to draw as much attention as possible this evening.

I can already tell by the time we reach the large staircase that descends into the great hall that the dress is having the desired effect. We are fashionably late, which allows for much gawking and whispering as we enter together. I spy Tom, sulking with a circle of his followers in the corner, and cling onto Abraxas' arm a bit tighter. The band are just striking up a new song.

"Let's dance," I say to Abraxas, pulling him towards the floor.

"Sure," he acquiesces. "You like to dance?" he asks, once we are waltzing.

"Love it," I reply, smiling at him. He smiles back. I glance at Tom out of the corner of my eye. He looks sullen and morose. My smile widens.

We dance some more, then eat, then dance again, Abraxas nimbly keeping up with me. I can feel Tom's eyes on us the whole night, but I stop caring as Abraxas and I talk and laugh and I find myself genuinely enjoying his company. By midnight, my feet are sore, but I'm still wildly awake, still giddy with the euphoria of dancing. I grab Abraxas by the arm.

"Let's get out of here," I whisper to him. He nods, and I lead him out of the hall, Tom's gaze burning into our backs.

I guide him through the labyrinthine corridors until we reach the kitchens. I tickle the pear in one of the still life paintings, then enter through the door. Abraxas whistles through his teeth as he follows me.

"I've never been in here before," he says.

The kitchen glitters with stacks of gleaming copper pots and rows of sparkling glassware. Silver cutlery smoulders in the candlelight, and there is the comforting clink of china plates being washed by a house-elf. There are several elves drifting around, wiping surfaces and chopping carrots with docile efficiency. When they see us, they positively squawk in excitement, and begin to congregate around us, pulling up stools for us to sit down and chattering to each other.

"Thank you," I say to the elf who provided me with my stool.

They compliment us, and ask what they can get for us in the incessantly obliging way that house-elves do. I smile fondly at them.

"Do you happen to have any Lotus Gin Liquor?" I ask. "Oh, and Eton Mess. I'm really in the mood for some Eton Mess. And a strawberry pavlova. Please?"

The food and drink appears at an almost alarming rate. I pour Abraxas a measure of the liquor, and we both drink, relishing in the sugary aftertaste. Then I grab a spoon and tuck into the first pavlova. Abraxas delicately begins on the Eton Mess.

We are both stuffed full and more than a little tipsy when we return to the common room later that night.

"I had a really good time tonight," Abraxas says before we part ways.

"Me too," I reply, grinning.

"It's a shame that Tom's going to kill me," he continues, giggling a bit. I laugh too.

"Don't worry," I say, slurring my words a little. "I'll protect you."

"Thank you," he says. "You're a good friend."

"I know," I say, and burst out laughing. In retrospect, I may have drunk a tad too much.

"Night," he says as he leaves, and promptly walks into the doorframe of his dormitory.

"Night," I reply as I stagger onto the nearest sofa and pass out cold.


	9. Tom behaves like a Child

The dream is different this time. There's no screaming, no wild panic, no blood and destruction. The boy- Harry- is still present, though. And still dead. I kneel down next to his body, and trace my fingers over his face to close those green eyes, smooth his hair back from his forehead. There is a scar there, shaped like a bolt of lightning, and I touch it gingerly.

Next to him lies another body, this time of a girl. She is about the same age as him, and is also dead. Her hair, dyed a deep, emerald green, splays out from her head, and she wears my locket around her neck, the gold glittering lazily.

I stand up, and realise we are inside the Chamber of Secrets. But when I call out to Aristomache, there is no reply.

Tom persists in not speaking to me for the next two weeks. At first his stubbornness amused me, but now I'm simply irritated by his childish behaviour. Plus, I miss having him to talk to. Abraxas is good company, but there's something more honest, more raw that surfaces when I speak to Tom. I can't quite put my finger on it.

After a fortnight of silence between us, I decide that I have to act to bridge the gap. I'm running out of time, and I need Tom to be on my side if I'm going to get what I came here for.

I open the Room of Requirement early one Saturday morning, and leave a message suspended in the centre of the room in elegant, silvery script. It reads:

_'Stop acting like a child and come talk to me, you idiot._

_Love,_

_Evangeline'_

I think it conveys the message quite concisely.

He finds me reading in the library later that day.

"I got your message," he says stoically, the first words he's given me in weeks.

"Did you," I reply, not looking up from my book.

He sits down next to me and folds his arms. "Why are you angry with me?" he asks suddenly.

"I could ask you the same question," I muse, turning over a page.

"Because—" he begins hotly, then breaks off. "Because," he continues at a quieter volume, "I thought we were supposed to be friends. Real friends. And then you go and choose _him_ over me and I—" He stops short again.

I put my book down very carefully and turn to look at him. "You didn't even bother to ask me," I begin slowly. "I waited, Tom. I waited for you to ask, but you never did, you just assumed that I would be going with you because you're selfish and you can't even fathom that I might have a life that doesn't revolve around you. You don't see me as a friend, you see me as a pawn. And I will never, Tom, _never_, let you use me like that."

Tom looks stricken, and glances away. After a moment, he speaks.

"I don't see you as a pawn, you know," he says quietly. "The others, yes. But not you."

"Why?" I ask.

"Because you're not afraid of me," he replies at length. It's true, I suppose.

There is a short silence.

_Friends?_ I ask without speaking. He needs a friend, I realise. Needs one desperately, because he's spent so long being too brilliant to have an equal that he can talk to. He's isolated, and lonely, and he needs me just as much as I need him.

_Friends_, he replies. And that's that.

We're eating trifle together in the great hall in early December when the list for those staying at Hogwarts over the Christmas break gets passed around.

"You going home for Christmas?" I ask him as the list comes our way, knowing full well what the answer will be.

"This is my home," he says stiffly. Fair enough. Then, after a pause, he asks "What about you? Going back to Albania?"

"No," I reply, dipping my spoon into the trifle absentmindedly. "I don't go back there often. My parents own a house in Cambridgeshire. That's where I tend to go in the holidays."

"But your parents are still in Albania," he says slowly.

"Your point is?" I ask.

"So you're not going to see them?"

I shrug. "They're very busy people. And they knew what the cost of sending me to school abroad would be. There's a woman who pops in from time to time to check up on me, but for the most part, I'm alone at the house."

"Oh," is all he says.

"You could come home with me for the holidays," I offer. "There's plenty of room, since it's just me there, and I'd be glad to have some company."

He smiles tentatively. "Are you sure?"

"Why not?" I say, smiling back. "Come on. It'll be fun!"

When the list finally reaches our part of the table, neither of us write our names down.

I don't like lying to Tom. About the house, about my parents and Albania and all of it. But what else am I to tell him? That my parents died in England over nine hundred years ago? That I built the Cambridgeshire house myself nearly five hundred years ago?

I have to tell him eventually, of course. That's the only way I can get him to do what I need him to.

I go to the library alone after class, and begin scouring through the records of past students. I'm looking for one name in particular.

I already know who she is. I've scouted out her house, looked through her belongings, followed her around. But the time is drawing near when I'll have to make my move, and so it doesn't hurt to know every last-minute detail about her life beforehand.

Her name is Hepzibah Smith.


	10. What It Comes Down To

Tom and I grab a compartment together on the Hogwarts express. It's bitterly cold outside, and snow submerges the little station, so that it looks like an idyllic painting on a Christmas card. I cast a small heating charm in an attempt to dispel the chill, then fish two bottles of butterbeer out of my trunk.

"How is it that you always have alcohol to hand?" Tom asks, with a touch of amusement. He takes a bottle, and clinks it against mine.

"Butterbeer is hardly alcoholic," I say defensively. "And besides, the wizarding world is incredibly lax about little things like underage drinking. There are surprisingly few laws surrounding the purchase of alcohol."

"Well," Tom says, taking a large gulp, "the wizarding world clearly has no logic. I mean, think about it. They let you, an irresponsible teenager, purchase alcoholic beverages, and then complain when you smash things when you're off your face."

I blush furiously. "First of all, I was not off my face. Secondly, that was _one_ incident, and I think it was completely justified."

"So the magical Scrabble board deserved it?" Tom asks drily.

"It said _epiphinot _wasn't a real word! Which it definitely is!"

"It's not a word," Tom says.

"Well, it should be," I reply sourly.

"It's a made-up word," Tom says.

"So were half of the words Shakespeare used! I think it's unfair for the Scrabble board to punish me for my undiluted creative genius."

Tom laughs. "You're insane."

I give him a kick in the shin, but can't help laughing too. "You know, that's not actually the first time I've heard that."

"I can easily believe it," he replies.

After arriving back at King's Cross, Tom takes my arm and we apparate to my house. Or rather, to just outside the front gate; no-one, including me, can apparate straight inside. It's one of the many precautions I've taken in order to keep it completely secure.

The house is Georgian in style: red-bricked and square, with towering chimneys and rows of lace-curtained windows. It's sizeable, but not excessively large, and squats in a little, walled plot of land surrounded only by the woods and, beyond that, the rolling Cambridgeshire countryside. Ivy claws at the walls, and almost smothers the porch, its leaves dusted by the sparse crystals of frost.

I open the creaking wrought iron gate, and gesture for Tom to enter. He does, and I lead him along the path and up the steps to the porch. All the while, he gazes up at the house like an enthralled child, his blue eyes wide. I suppose it must make a nice change from the orphanage.

The door opens automatically upon sensing my arrival, and Tom's look of wonder only increases as we proceed into a large, red-carpeted entrance hall, bedecked with chandeliers and two, great, sweeping staircases

"It's bigger on the inside," he murmurs in awe.

I refrain from mocking him for stating the obvious, instead smiling a bit as I place my suitcase down on the floor.

"The house's interior is infinitely large," I say, gesturing to the high ceiling and the sprawling staircases. "And it has a mind of its own. It likes to grow or shrink whenever it feels like it. Last time I was here, it had added a whole spa complex, complete with a sauna and everything."

"How?" Tom asks.

"A lot of magic," I say evasively. "Do you want to go and put your things in your room?"

"Sure," he replies, his pale fingers clenching around the handle of his trunk. "Where is my room?"

I shrug, grinning a bit. "Who knows? Just start walking, and you'll find it."

Tom stares at me for a moment in disbelief, as if wondering if I'm joking. "What?"

"That's how the magic of this place works," I say cheerfully. "Your every wish is its command. It'll know you're here, so I assume it's prepared a room for you. Just walk in any direction, and the house will rearrange to ensure you find it."

"Any direction?" he asks.

"Yes," I say impatiently. "Now go!"

He begins to walk uncertainly across the hall and up one of the staircases, glancing back every so often. I give him an encouraging smile, then turn on my heel and head to my own room. I have no idea where it'll be this time, so I likewise walk randomly, bypassing the stairs and instead taking a door on the left. It leads through the drawing room, then down a small flight of stairs to a long, blue-carpeted corridor framed with intermittent white doors. I walk past three doors until I feel the irrational urge to stop. I pivot, and the familiar door to my bedroom is before me, creamy white wood with a silver, serpentine door handle. On an impulse, I glance at the name embossed in brassy, golden letters on the door just across the corridor: 'Tom' it reads. Presumably he's already arrived.

"_Open_," I say in Parseltongue. The door handle twitches to the side and the door clicks open softly. I step inside my room.

There is planning to be done. I don't have long left, and I need to get what I came to Tom for.

I draw up a list at my desk.

Number one on my agenda is to get Tom to kill Hepzibah Smith. I'm not entirely sure if she needs to die, but it's better to be safe than sorry. Of course, in order for that to happen, I need to get Tom to infiltrate her house in some way. I already have ideas formulating on how I can make it happen. Oh, and the owners of Borgin and Burke's may also need to be dispatched.

Number two is to get Tom to take back what's mine. Not just steal it, but claim it, own it. There is powerful magic at play here, and the tiniest mistake could destroy me. My sole link to life must be restored to my bloodline before I can take another body, or else I risk death. Real death.

Number three involves me taking a little trip. Assuming that all goes to plan, I need to return to my cave in the mountains to ensure that the rebirth process is properly restored. Immortality is a delicate art; I cannot afford to cut corners.

My real issue in all of this is convincing Tom to partake in the scheme. I can't simply put him under the Imperius curse, or any other form of mind control. He must do it all of his own free will, or else the magic might fail. And what reason might I give for wanting him to do it? I could invent something, of course, but yet again the crippling fear of any kind of deception affecting the tenuous spellwork of my immortality cancels that as an option.

I have to tell Tom who I am, I realise. Have to, if I want to be absolutely sure of succeeding. That way he will do as I require, and there will be no lies between us.

What it comes down to, I suppose, is morality and immortality.


	11. The Mousetrap

I wait for a week before I lay my trap.

We go sledging in the fields round the back of the house, build a ten-foot snowman. Toast marshmallows and sit by the fire in the lounge. Talk and read and laugh. Play Scrabble and charades and Cluedo.

I always win at Cluedo because I'm the better leglimens. Try as he might, Tom cannot hide his cards from me.

Needless to say, it's the best holiday I've had in a while. So I procrastinate on telling Tom the truth, because I don't want things to be different between us.

There's no way this kind of bombshell won't change everything. It frightens me more than I would like. But after a week, I know that I can't keep avoiding it. Not if I want to live.

I have an old pensieve at the house. It's from the sixteenth century, a repurposed baptismal font that I rescued from a doomed monastery. The magic of the house has preserved it immaculately, so that its glistening white marble has not weathered or crumbled with age, and the intricate carvings gouged into its exterior are intact. There is a shining copper basin within the font, brimming with a silvery liquid, like molten pewter or swirling mist.

The pensieve lives in a cramped study, commanding the attention of the towering bookcases that congregate around its glow. It's not a room that Tom would have any cause to go into, but that is easily amended.

"I need Tom to find his way here tonight," I say, out loud, to the house, as I set the scene for Tom's arrival. It feels oddly underhand, arranging the font and the room in order to entice Tom in. Like I'm part of some twisted game of Cluedo, and Tom will walk in and say "It was Salazar, in the Study, with the Pensieve!"

I nearly laugh, out of sporadic, nervous amusement.

The house doesn't immediately reply to my request, and I pause, waiting. Then a random book falls without reason from one of the bookshelves. It's as good an acquiescence as any.

I leave the wooden lid off the pensieve, so that its shimmering glow remains undimmed. The memories- my memories- are already inside. I ensure that the door remains wide open as I leave, the silvery light spilling into the hallway, and the trap is set.

It is half past one in the morning before Tom finds the pensieve. Presumably awoken from his sleep by the house's magic, he wanders restlessly along the labyrinthine corridors, unwittingly drawn towards the study. I follow him, noiseless and invisible.

He pauses at the sight of the open door, and the light seeping out into the corridor that is otherwise shrouded in darkness. Curiosity overrules what is perhaps better judgment, and he cautiously steps into the study, oblivious to the fact that I am only a few paces behind.

When he sees the font, he knows exactly what it is immediately. He caresses his long fingers reverently over the white marble, gazing down into the swirling liquid with unrestrained wonder. The radiance of the metallic fluid laps gently over the harsh, angular panes of his face, making his skin bone-white. I clench my wand tightly, wanting him to hurry up and find out and yet simultaneously wondering if it's too late to knock him out, wipe his memory and send him back to bed. My sense of self preservation prevails, however, and as he lowers his head to the bowl, I point my wand directly at his back and think: _leglimens_.

It's a horrible breach of Tom's privacy, I know, but it's not as if this is the first time. And plus, it's necessary. This way I can see unseen.

Tom's mind envelops me, and his thoughts wash over me until they become my thoughts and I become him and he becomes me and there is no boundary between out two minds because I've gone deeper into his skull than I ever have before. What he sees I see, and what he feels I feel. He is in control, but he doesn't know that I am there, his shadow, inside his head.

I open my eyes. The vague sensation of falling has faded, and I'm standing in a dim, mossy cave in a forest. There is a greenish, flicking light coming from the cave's throat, and I descend deeper into its maw. Offhandedly, I wonder whose memories these are. Probably Evangeline's, although it seems out of character for her to leave them carelessly out in the open for anyone to stumble across. But if not hers, who else's? After all, I'm the only company she tends to keep. And I like it that way; I think she does too. She's the only person I've ever met who's looked at me and not been afraid, and it makes a nice change. A change I never knew I needed until she was suddenly just _there_, berating me and laughing with me and matching me in every way. An equal, finally.

It's been good, if strange, not having that cold emptiness, that void inside. Pain and hate never did quite fill it, but she did. Maybe I'm not just there yet, but I think I could be close. Who knew that was what friendship could do? It sort of makes sense now, why other people have friends. I never understood it before.

The greenish light dancing off the cave walls brightens, and I round the corner and see a small, emerald fire, the flames crackling and leaping without wood. Seated cross-legged by the fire is a boy. He's about thirteen or fourteen, with dirty, pallid skin and dark hair. I know enough about memories not to bother talking to him, so I stand and watch. He leans forward intently, his outstretched hand lovingly stroking something I cannot see, and murmuring reassuringly to it. I step a little closer, and the sickly light falls on a beautiful, coiled snake. The boy pets it adoringly, his chapped lips whispering softly. At first, it sounds like unintelligible sighs, but upon listening intently, I realise with a jolt of shock that the boy is hissing. Or, more precisely, speaking Parseltongue.

"_It's okay_," he croons tenderly. "_It's all going to be alright_."

I stand frozen, drinking the words in greedily like one gulping water in a desert. I've never heard another human being speaking Parseltongue, never met another Parselmouth. Except for my uncle, but he was an idiot and doesn't count.

Then I take a proper look at the snake, only it isn't a snake because I've seen my fair share of snakes and I know one when I see it. No, this serpent is different: thicker, with rows of spiked frills running along its length and framing its head. And its eyes, too young to kill, are a fierce, vibrant orange. A sudden realisation dawns on me, horrible and exhilarating and utterly insane.

The serpent, although young and small- less than a metre long- is unmistakably a basilisk. And there haven't been wild basilisks- or any basilisks, for that matter- recorded in Britain for the last five hundred years. Except for the one I suspect is in the Chamber of Secrets. Not that its ever shown its face to me.

I look back to the boy, because something about his face is familiar, and I know I've seen him somewhere before. But before I can begin to put the fragments together, the scene around me dissolves and I am somewhere else entirely.

There is a gushing river. It tumbles down a series of rapids, framed by great slabs of rock on each bank. The sun is out, and the rock is smooth and warm to the touch. I can barely hear anything over the guttural roar of that pounding water, churning over the well-rounded stones of the riverbed.

The boy is here, too. Perhaps a year or two older: he is several inches taller and his eyes are sharper. Sixteen, perhaps? He appears less impoverished this time; gone is the dirt from his face, and his skin has some more colour, although he is still pale. There is something else different too, a kind of gravitas that wasn't there before. He's more poised, more at one with his surroundings. But, I note, he's still very thin. Unhealthily so. It shows up in the way his eyes are slightly sunken, in the malnourished prominence of his cheekbones.

The basilisk is draped lazily across his shoulders, and he whittles away at some wood with a small silver knife.

A wand, I realise. He's making a wand.

The face is so achingly familiar, and yet I can't quite place it. Perhaps a distant relative of mine, if he can speak Parseltongue. But then how is it that Evangeline has his memories in her pensieve?

Then I'm back in a forest. Maybe the same one as before. The boy is a little older yet again, perhaps eighteen. It's hard to tell, with his lanky frame and gaunt face. He's sat in a tree, high up and well-concealed, casually levitating twigs with his wand. There's a sudden sound of hoofbeats from below and his concentration breaks; the twigs fall. He looks down in mild curiosity to see a small group of young men, all in armour, all on horseback. They wear varying colours of cloaks, embroidered with their family emblems. The leader of this little cadre is a well-built, blond young man in a deep, crimson cape. There is a large, ornate silver sword at his hip, set with fat, glittering rubies.

My breath catches. Catches, because I know that sword. Just like I know the lion crest stitched onto his cloak.

This can't be happening. These memories… they can't be real.

The group is clearly a hunting party, a little posse of nobles' sons. They pause, and signal to one another silently. Then they all branch out in different directions.

Godric Gryffindor heads slowly back the way they came, directly under the tree where the boy perches. He draws his sword quietly, looking around for potential prey.

He doesn't realise that he has become the prey.

I spot them, and the boy, from his vantage point, spots them too. Bandits, or outlaws, or whoever they are. It doesn't matter. All that matters it that it's an ambush, and Godric doesn't even see the arrow that's fired directly at his head until it's too late.

Salazar sees it, though. Salazar, because that's who he has to be if this is Godric Gryffindor.

The resemblance to the portrait is uncanny.

With a flick of his wand, Salazar stops the arrow mid-flight. Godric's head whips around and he stares at it, suspended in the air an inch from his head. Then more arrows come, and Salazar stops them all, and they clatter to the ground, harmless. And Salazar leaps down from his tree, wand raised, and Godric can only stare in shock as Salazar proceeds to obliterate the bandits that come charging through the trees. It's over before it's really begun. I can't tell if they're dead or just unconscious, but either way, I don't particularly care.

A tiny smile appears on Salazar's lips as he surveys the destruction he has just wrought.

Godric dismounts, and approaches Salazar. Salazar turns to face him warily. Godric pulls his helmet off.

_They're so different_, I think. Godric is tall, broad and muscled, with fair hair and a kind of chivalric handsomeness. He can't be much different in age than Salazar, but in physicality he seems years older. What Salazar lacks in frame, however, he more than makes up for in presence. Although wiry and malnourished, there is that underlying sense of age, power and wisdom in him. His dark eyes look as if they've seen the rise and fall of kingdoms.

Slowly, Godric draws his own wand. Not as a weapon, but as a gesture of trust. Because simply carrying a wand must've been enough to get you burnt alive at this point.

Salazar stares at him.

"You're one of us," Godric says, quietly.

Salazar nods.

_This is my ancestor_, I think. _This is the story of my blood_.

The scene changes again.


	12. Tom is Confused

There is a castle by the lake.

It's a sprawling mass of towers and parapets, battlements and buttresses. Its windows glitter in the setting sun.

I recognise it instantly as Hogwarts. Although hundreds of years have altered the castle somewhat, its essence remains the same.

I look around, and spot the Founders instantly. They stand together on the hill overlooking the lake, gazing down on the castle. Salazar and Godric are there, in their twenties now, framed by Helga and Rowena.

My breath catches. _This_, I think. _This was a moment that would define history for evermore. A moment that changed the world. My world._

Salazar is nearing the age of the portrait. His frame has filled out a bit, and he's grown a touch taller. Gone is the sunken look of his eyes, the hollow appearance of his cheeks. He's smiling as Godric drapes an arm lazily across his shoulders and gives him a friendly shake. The basilisk, now a good three metres long, curls at his feet.

Godric reaches out and puts his other arm around Helga. She leans casually into him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. Helga has a notably kind face, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks rosy, and I notice that both her hands and gown are stained with mud. She is dressed simply, in browns and ochres. There is a kind of quiet, undimmed joy about her as she glances down the line to Rowena.

Rowena gives Helga a little smile, and gracefully joins the group, placing her arm around Salazar. She is dressed finely in dark blue, jewels glittering at her throat and wrists. Her long, dark hair tumbles down her back, crowned by the sparkling diadem on her head. The ink stains on her fingers stand out against the pallidity of her skin, her face as white as marble and stunningly grave. Salazar grins at her.

The four of them stand there, arms around each other, surveying their work. What they have built from nothing. I don't think I'm breathing.

My surroundings dissolve, and mould themselves into the headmaster's office of Hogwarts. Several more years have passed. Salazar is wearing his locket. Godric's sword is sheathed at his side. Rowena's diadem is on her head. I spot a golden cup in one of the glass cabinets.

They are arguing.

"I thought we'd been through this," Salazar spits out, pale and shaking with anger.

"'Zar—" Helga intercedes desperately. She looks close to tears.

"It's not fair to them if we just exclude them completely," Godric says stoically. His jaw is set.

"And it doesn't make sense for us to just rule them out," Rowena interjects. Her face is severe, her manner stern. "Surely you must see that, 'Zar."

"We agreed—" Salazar begins, but Rowena cuts him off.

"_We_," she says, "have changed our minds."

"Without me," Salazar says bitterly. His eyes have begun to glitter dangerously.

Helga attempts to intervene. "It wasn't like that, 'Zar."

"Really," he replies coldly.

"We set up this school to teach children," she pleads desperately. "All magical children."

Godric leans against a desk and fold his arms, his eyes rippling with ire. "If you've got a problem with it, then leave."

There is a moment of awful silence.

When Salazar speaks again, his voice cracks slightly, trembling with emotion. "Then I'll go." The air around him begins to ripple, to thrum with power. Sparks jump between his fingers. "I won't stand by and let you poison this school with their kind. I built this place to be a haven for _our_ people, and I refuse to be remembered as the one that let our enemies infect these halls."

Rowena's face is harsh, unforgiving. Godric simmers in wrath, glowering.

"'Zar," says Helga, tears in her eyes. "'Zar, please stop. Salazar."

"You have no idea what they're capable of," Salazar says, pain underlying each word. "What they can do. What they're already done."

Then he turns and leaves.

Then I'm in the Chamber of Secrets. Except it's new, shiny and glittering. The stone is polished, every surface eerily clean. Salazar places the small basilisk reverently on the floor. It's still less than four metres long.

"_You'll be safe here_," he whispers. "_I'll come back for you; I promise_."

He begins walking out. "_Goodbye, Aristomache_," he says over his shoulder.

It is a few weeks later. Salazar is in a tiny hovel, dirtied with travel, stirring up some potion. There is a knock on the door.

Godric doesn't wait for a reply before he bursts in. "Come back," he says.

Salazar stiffens, but doesn't turn around.

"I'm sorry," Godric continues, out of breath and desperate. "I was angry, and I was an idiot. I know we don't always see eye to eye, but we can solve this. I'm sure we can work something out. Please, 'Zar."

Salazar takes a deep breath. Then he turns to face Godric.

"No," he says.

"No?" Godric echoes.

"You betrayed me," says Salazar quietly. "You said you'd never do that."

"Please," Godric says. The heartbreak is all to evident in his voice, on his face.

Salazar shrugs. "You were my friend. I loved you more than anyone. You knew that, and you hurt me."

"I'm sorry," is all Godric can say.

"You should be," Salazar replies. He pauses for a moment, taking in Godric's face. I realise suddenly that this may well be the last time they see each other. "Goodbye," he says softly, and disapparates.

Then I'm in a cavern. It's vast, and lit with a faint blueish glow. Salazar stands before a large, tarnished, gilt mirror. He's wearing his locket, the emeralds smouldering lazily. He peers into the mirror, and sees himself. All powerful, all knowing, immortal. A vision of what he could be.

He clutches the locket tightly, his eyes devouring the image before him greedily.

Everything goes black and white and starts spinning and—

I emerge from the pensieve to see Evangeline standing there, the glow of the memories rippling over her face. She has a slightly vacant expression on her face, and waits, ghostly, grave, ethereal. Then her eyes focus and—

Tom's face is pale, his eyes slightly wide. I retreat from his mind back into myself, and blink. He stares up at me in shock, straightening to his full height. I linger in the doorway.

"So?" I ask quietly, both wanting and fearing the answer.

He looks at me like he's never seen me before. "What was that?"

"Memories," I reply.

"Whose?" he says, suddenly unsure of himself.

"Mine," I say.

He pauses for a moment, his glacier-blue eyes narrowed, uncomprehending. "How?" he asks eventually.

I smirk a little bit. "Come on Tom," I say. "You're a clever boy. Surely you can work it out."

He shakes his head as if to clear it. Then, slowly, he says "Chambers."

"Go on," I say.

"Evangeline Chambers. Chamber. Chamber of Secrets."

"Very good," I say patronisingly.

"When we talked about immortality," he begins, uncertainly, "You knew all about it. And you mentioned rebirth."

"Bingo," I say.

"Those memories were Salazar Slytherin's," he says hesitantly.

"Yes," I say.

"You can't be," he whispers, something akin to fear or wonder dawning on his face.

"_Why not?_" I ask in Parseltongue.

Tom faints.

**If there's one good thing that's come from Coronavirus, it's that I have more time to write, so hopefully there should be more updates in the coming weeks. **

**Firstly, thank you to everyone who has managed to get this far! There is plenty more to come, I assure you, so brace yourselves for lots of chapters of slightly insane fun. If you're stuck at home as I am, at least you'll have the chance to read it in peace ****:)**

**I also just wanted to say that I hope you all stay safe and healthy amid the pandemic, no matter what part of the world you're from. If you're self-isolating, I hope that this has provided you with some brief entertainment. **

**Love you all!**

**Amy Grace xx**


	13. We eat some Crumpets

Fortunately, Tom comes to quickly, stirring from the depths of unconsciousness. I fear I may have overloaded his tiny brain. Too much information too soon.

He cracks an eye open and groans, the noise somewhat muffled by the fact that he's practically kissing the carpet. I lean down over him and nudge him with my foot. He mumbles something incoherent.

"Come on," I say, offering him my hand. "There's something I want to show you."

He peels his face slowly off the carpet, eyeing me mistrustfully. I can't say I blame him. Despite his suspicious gaze, he takes my hand dubiously, picking himself up off the floor.

I lead him down the corridor and he trots after me like a lost child. He's terribly quiet, but there's a subtle, rippling fury in his eyes, despite the vacancy of his face. The house shifts and rearranges, lining up the hallways so that my room is directly ahead.

"Where are we going?" Tom asks quietly.

"My room," I reply.

He doesn't say anything in response to that.

"_Open_," I say in Parseltongue when we reach my door. I feel Tom flinch almost imperceptibly, his hand tightening within mine. The door opens soundlessly, and the candles in my chandelier sputter into life.

My room is large, and high-ceilinged, with a vast four-poster bed draped in dark green swathes at the centre. It is lit by an immense chandelier: a sparkling, spangled mass of diamonds dripping from a wreath of slender, white candles. There is a vanity, complete with a towering gilt mirror, and several pieces of dark, wooden furniture. But the most notable feature of the room is the pictures.

Plastered and tacked and hung across every wall are hundreds of pictures, some dating back to nearly a thousand years ago. Paintings, mostly, but also some more recent photographs, in grainy black and white. Many are enchanted to move; some are static.

Tom gazes around, wide-eyed. His focus lands eventually on the largest painting, in pride of place above the mantlepiece. Set in a heavy, golden frame, it features myself and the other founders, posing for the artist in the headmaster's office of Hogwarts.

We looked so happy, back then. We're all laughing and smiling, content in our situation. My chest hurts a bit to look at it.

Tom walks towards the painting, and slowly reaches out his fingers to trace the inscription on the frame. It reads:

THE FOUNDERS

992

"Nine hundred and ninety-two," he reads softly.

I walk up and stand beside him. "I was twenty-nine at the time," I say gently. "That was in my first life."

"And what life are you on now?" he asks dully.

I pause momentarily. "My twenty-fourth," I say at last. Then I gesture to all the pictures on the walls. "These are from all my lives. The people that I've known."

_And lost_, is what I don't need to add.

"You lied to me," he says bluntly.

"Yes," I reply. I'm not sure what else I can say to that.

"Why?" he asks.

I sigh, and trudge wearily over to my bed, plopping down on it. I fumble on the bedside table for a bottle of firewhisky, and take a swig. Truth, or lies? I know Tom deserves the truth from me. He just might hate me because of it, though.

"I needed to be anonymous," I begin. "That way, I could watch over you undetected."

He narrows his eyes. "Why watch over me?"

I shrug, taking another sip. "You're the only family I have left."

"So you—" he breaks off, his voice catching. "You didn't befriend me because you actually liked me." There's hurt and betrayal in every word. I wince, and take a hasty gulp of the firewhisky.

"That is correct," I say frankly. He turns away, looking at the floor. "But," I continue, "over the last couple of months you've grown on me. Not many people can earn my sincere friendship. But you have."

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" he mumbles, still not looking at me.

I laugh, and cross the room to where he's standing. I take his hands in my own, and look into his averted eyes.

"You don't. Neither of us are good people, Tom. We're both deceitful, and selfish, and cruel. But for what it's worth, I think I'm better with you. And you're certainly better off with my influence in your life. _That_ is the truth."

Tom, very slowly, brings his gaze up to mine.

"We were born into the same bloodline by chance, Tom," I say. "But I chose to make you my friend."

He smiles. Faintly, but it's there. At last, very quietly, he asks: "What should I call you? Salazar or Evangeline or—"

"Tom," I interrupt, laughing in relief, "you can call me whatever the hell you want."

I answer all of Tom's questions- and there are a lot- mostly truthfully. I show him my different forms throughout the ages, immortalised in the pictures on my walls. I tell him about the lives I've lived.

Of course, I don't divulge everything. There are some secrets I can't even share with Tom

By the time evening rolls around, we're sat by the fire, eating crumpets and drinking butterbeer.

"Salazar," Tom begins, and I instantly know I'm in for another round of questioning. He reclines on the sofa, draped languidly over the cushions. The firelight dances across the harsh panes of his face. "Is the whole Chamber of Secrets myth true, then?"

I shrug, biting into a buttery crumpet. "Mostly," I say. "I mean, it's been embellished a bit over the years, but the essence of it is correct."

"So there's a basilisk down there?" he asks. "The one I saw in the pensieve?"

"Her name is Aristomache," I reply, leaning back against a plump cushion. "She's just a bit younger than me, and she's the most irritable creature you'll ever have the misfortune to meet."

"And the heir of Slytherin can use her to purge the school of the unworthy?" he asks, his tone disconcertingly eager.

"That," I say, gesturing with my crumpet, "is absolute rubbish. Any one of my descendants- or any Parselmouth for that matter- can summon her if they feel like it. And before you ask, she didn't come to you because I told her not to. Lord know what you would've done with her. Plus, I only left her in the Chamber in the first place to protect her. Magical creatures were being severely hunted at that time, and I knew she'd be safe at Hogwarts. All that stuff about purging Mudbloods was made up later. Not that I would've objected to it at the time."

He chews on his crumpet thoughtfully. "You don't hate Mudbloods anymore?"

"Times change," I reply casually. "They used to be a danger to our people. They're not anymore."

There is a moment of silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire and the sound of Tom slurping some butterbeer.

Then, "Salazar," Tom begins again.

"Lord give me strength," I mutter.

"What was Henry the Eighth like?"

"Fat," I reply shortly. "Oh look at the time. We must be getting you to bed."

Tom smirks uncontrollably. He stands and heads to the door. He rests a hand on the doorknob, then turns and asks: "Did you ever meet Merlin?"

"Yes," I say, gritting my teeth. I point at the door. "Bed. Now."

Tom smirks again, and leaves the room. There is a few seconds of peace until he yells from the corridor: "Did you know Shakespeare?"

"Bed!" I yell back.

Later that night, I apparate into Hepzibah Smith's house. It's quiet, and dusty, and stuffy. I carefully pad along the hall into her cramped sitting room. It's like a dragon's hoard, overspilling with forgotten treasures and antiques gathering dust in glass cabinets. The moon picks out the dull glimmer of gold and jewels.

There, nestled in a satiny cushion in pride of place, is my locket. It gleams, the emeralds winking in the dim light.

I like to come here, just to look at it. I don't dare risk touching it.

Eighteen years, its been out of my bloodline for. I've played around with dangerous magic, stretched the bounds of sorcery to their limits. I can only hope that once Tom retrieves the locket, the laws of enchantment will be satisfied. Then I can be reborn once more.

**So proud of myself for updating this quickly! Free time does wonders for my writing.**

**Once again, stay safe, happy reading and leave a review if you are so inclined :)**

**Love you all,**

**Amy Grace xx**


	14. We dye some hair

My dreams persist, but, thankfully, they remain just that. Dreams. The girl features more often now, sometimes alongside Harry, sometimes not. But she's always wearing my locket.

One night, she's alone, dead, in the Headmaster's office at Hogwarts. I quietly walk over and stoop to inspect her corpse.

She's a brunette, but her hair is dip-dyed a deep green; her skin is milky-white and freckled. I pick up her cold, limp hand- the left one- and turn it over in my palm. Her nails are painted a chipped, shimmering black and there's an elegant silver ring on her fourth finger, set with a sparkling diamond. She can't be any more than nineteen.

It occurs to me that I may be a seer. I can't tell yet whether delving into the arts of divination was a good idea or not, but I determine to test the extent of my abilities. So, the very next day, I order a crystal ball and several china teacups by owl. They arrive within a few hours.

School starts up again soon after the new year. On New Year's Eve-which just so happens to be Tom's birthday- Tom and I played Monopoly (which I won), then drank my liquor cabinet half dry and danced to obnoxiously loud music. Needless to say, my hangover persisted to almost the beginning of term, and Tom was still wearing sunglasses when the bell rang for first class. It seems he can't hold his drink nearly as well as me.

By the time History of Magic rolls around, I'm horribly bored. It's not exactly a difficult subject, given that I lived through most of it. Binns is droning on about the goblin rebellion of 1612 (something that I was thankfully not a part of. I'm fairly certain I was actually out of the country at the time). Fortunately, Tom and I develop a game to pass the time.

"You first," he whispers furtively.

I'm not entirely sure what the aim of the game is. To irritate our classmates, perhaps? To show off our impressive magic to each other?

"Okay," I murmur back. "Who's the target?"

Tom reclines back in his chair and sweeps his gaze over the class. From our vantage point near the back, we have an excellent view.

"Haywood," he says eventually. Elizabeth Haywood, a Hufflepuff, sits near the front of class, looking just as bored as the rest of us.

"Sure," I reply, my fingers already itching to cast some spells. "Colour?" I ask.

Tom pauses, deliberating. "Purple," he says at last.

I cringe internally. "Tom," I hiss, "she's a redhead. Do you have any idea how horribly that's going to clash?"

"Well if you don't think you can do it—"

"Shut up," I whisper, giving him a gentle shove.

Slowly, the ends of Haywood's hair begin to turn a bright, electric purple. The colour creeps steadily upwards until, with a deft flick of my fingers, the dye stops on a jarringly straight line. The contrast really is quite horrific. Haywood, half asleep, doesn't even notice that the lower half of her hair is now a shade that might be kindly entitled 'vibrant violet'.

"Nice," Tom whispers, trying not to laugh.

"Thank God it'll wash out," I mumble under my breath. "Now. Your turn." I look around a bit until my gaze lands on one boy in particular. A six-foot tall, blond Gryffindor who is currently snoring lightly. I indicate him to Tom. "See that Gryffindor?" I begin. "I don't know his name, but I do know that he hates Slytherins with a passion." I pause, smiling. "Make his hair green."

"Your wish is my command," Tom says, grinning, and, with a subtle flick of his wand, the boy's hair deepens to an unmistakeably Slytherin green.

"He'll have a fit when he looks in the mirror," I whisper, trying not to snigger.

"So will Abraxas," Tom begins, "after you make his precious hair bright red."

By the time the lesson is over, the entire class is sporting a myriad of gaudy, lurid colours in their hair. Needless to say, they are not best pleased when they wake up. Tom and I hastily colour our own hair, so to avoid suspicion, although we both take care to make our new hairstyles decidedly more flattering than the rest of the students'. I go for a subtle, dark burgundy, whilst Tom parades around, showing off his new, platinum blond hair. It's definitely an odd sight, although I catch Abraxas Malfoy gazing longingly at Tom's new hair more than a few times, whilst sadly fingering his own scarlet locks. There is, of course, an investigation into what has now been dubbed the 'hair heist', but the teachers seem to be more amused than angry about it. Professor Dumbledore was definitely chuckling when I saw him pass that Gryffindor boy in the hallway after class.

All in all, it's a pretty good first week back.

On Friday night, I slip undetected into the Slytherin boys' dormitory and leave an old pamphlet for Borgin and Burke's in the pages of one of Tom's books. It won't hurt to give him some clues, and the more he figures out on his own, the better. Eventually, I will lead him to the locket. But for now, it's best if I maintain this friendship, gradually preparing him for the task that lies ahead. Hopefully he won't hate me too much when he finds out the truth. Hopefully.

**Sorry it's a bit short, but I just wanted to do a little fun, light-hearted chapter before we delve into the insanity that's coming. I, for one, am very excited to share it with you guys :)**

**Expected update: by 3****rd**** April, maybe? We'll see.**

**Love you all!**

**Amy Grace xxx**


	15. A Dodgy Alleyway

By the time the summer holidays roll around, I'm practically imploding with impatience. It's been nearly seven months since I revealed my identity to Tom; seven months of insanity, of drinking firewhisky in the Room of Requirement, of duelling each other in the Chamber of Secrets, of sneaking into the kitchens for the free food. And in those seven months, Tom has somehow managed to fill a place in my heart that I didn't even realise had been empty since I severed ties with Godric. Friends, but more than that. _Family._

And yet Tom still hasn't quite put the fragmented clues together, still hasn't asked about the locket. I'm growing anxious.

We agree to spend the summer at the Cambridgeshire House, as we do every holiday. So that's where we arrive, trunks in hand, in the sticky heat of mid-July. The roses clawing up the brick façade are in full bloom, and the little garden is submerged in sprouting flowers. There is a rippling haze in the air, which is humid and sultry, and the underlying hum of bees.

I leave the matter for a couple of weeks, before eventually succumbing to my increasing impatience and suggesting a trip to Diagon Alley. Tom, thankfully, complies with few questions. The next morning, we apparate straight into the crooked avenue, the sun baking the worn cobbles and a gentle breeze setting the creaky shop signs swaying. I take Tom into one of my Gringotts vaults first and he nearly drops dead at the sight of gold and jewels billowing over the floor like a sparkling sea.

"It's all yours," I say, offering him the little sliver key, "if you want it."

He stares at me, wide-eyed, and I smile, pressing the key into his palm.

Weighed down by an obscene number of coins, we venture back out into the sunny alleyway. I take the lead, accumulating dozens of shopping bags stuffed full with books and clothes.

"You certainly like shopping," Tom comments, glancing at the assortment of bags dangling from my hands and smiling incredulously.

"Shopping is one of the many pleasures in life," I reply airily. "Ice cream?"

We stop at an ice cream parlour and stuff ourselves with fruity sundaes practically dripping out of crystal glasses. Then I casually suggest that we take a turn up Knockturn Alley.

"You want to go down the dodgiest street in London?" Tom asks, grinning slyly.

"Don't you?" I return through a deliciously cold mouthful of sundae.

He shrugs noncommittally. "Alright."

Knockturn Alley is the disreputable twin to its counterpart, Diagon Alley. Even on a day like today, the street is flooded with twisting shadows, the looming storefronts blocking the sunlight and casting the shoppers as fleeting silhouettes that dart in and out of dark recesses like fish in a rockpool. Most travellers are alone, and hooded, their faces little more than warped smears heavily obscured by their cowls. There is an ancient scent to the alley, a commingling of dust and old stone and brass and archaic parchment. It's strangely intoxicating.

"Wait," says Tom, suddenly stopping and turning to look at one of the stores. I don't have to look to know that it's Borgin and Burke's. It seems as if some of the clues paid off, at least. "Can we go in there?" he asks.

I turn to face the shopfront. It's barely changed at all since I was last here: the windows are still yellowed with age and greased by a thousand touches, the blurred glimmer of lost treasures behind the lead-lined glass simultaneously foreboding and yet strangely alluring.

"Of course," I reply nonchalantly, as if it isn't the most important thing in the world to me.

We step inside, and the heavy copper bell, greening with antiquity, jangles loudly. The shop is large, dimly lit, and laden with a myriad of antiques: dusty crystals, tarnished mirrors, weathered bones and dulled jewellery. Tom whistles in appreciation, gazing around at the crammed shelves in wonder.

A man springs to life from behind the counter and slinks up to us. He's one of those people of whom it is impossible to tell the age; he concurrently appears wizened and ancient, as if he has the dust from ages past still in the lines on his face, and yet his eyes have a kind of youthful cunning. In the gloomy light of the shop his wrinkles are exacerbated, and his appearance is oddly monotone, like a grey paper copy of a man.

"Can I help you with anything?" he asks with the practiced sleekness of a salesman.

"We're just browsing," I reply amiably, strolling towards a shelf and casually picking up a severed hand, inspecting its nails.

"Looking for anything in particular?" he persists.

I turn the severed hand over, looking at its palm before depositing it back on the shelf and picking up a bloodstained pocket watch.

"Do you have anything with an interesting history?" Tom asks politely, still enthralled by the menagerie of archaic items. He reaches out to pick up a ring set with a fat, glittering emerald.

"Don't touch that," both I and the shopkeeper say at the same time. Tom's hand pauses mid-air before withdrawing sheepishly.

"Unless you want to lose that hand," I amend over my shoulder, putting the pocket watch down and plucking a beautiful, engraved silver knife off the shelf.

"Well," begins the man smoothly, "we do have this lovely little piece." He pulls some white gloves out of his pocket and slips them over his hands before delicately retrieving a golden amulet from a glass cabinet. It's moulded like a scarab beetle, plated in gold and set with turquoise stones. "Egyptian," the shopkeeper says, holding it out on his palm for Tom to see. "Belonged to Rameses III before his assassination. The legend goes that it was stolen after his death, and every subsequent owner was murdered in turn until the curse was broken by the Morrigan."

_Is that true?_ Tom asks silently.

_Mostly_, I think back.

"Fascinating," Tom says out loud. Before he can continue, I interrupt.

"What would you say is the most valuable item you've ever sold?" I ask mildly.

The shopkeeper reverently places the amulet back into the case and dusts off his hands. "That depends on what you value in an item," he replies evasively.

"The usual things," I say indifferently. "Age. History. Rarity. Price."

He shrugs. "I've sold many antiques that fit that description. But if you're asking what was the most expensive item I've ever sold, well, then that would have to be the locket of Salazar Slytherin."

Tom freezes up. "The what now?" he breathes.

The shopkeeper chuckles. "Unbelievable, I know. But true. We had it analysed by the best experts in the field, and they all confirmed that it was genuine."

Tom is silent in shock. He glances at me, but I keep my gaze firmly set on the shopkeeper, betraying nothing but cool interest.

"Who sold it to you?" I ask nonchalantly, feigning ignorance.

"Some girl," he says easily, "about twenty years ago it must've been. Pregnant, by the looks of her. She didn't even know what it was, sold it to me for 10 galleons. Of course, I sold it on for a great deal more."

"Really," I say composedly. "Who bought it?"

"An antiques collector," he replies. "And a regular here. Hepzibah Smith. She paid four hundred thousand galleons for it, if you can believe that."

"A small price to pay for such a priceless object," I muse.

"True," he says, chuckling.

I buy the little silver knife and escort a shell-shocked Tom from the shop. He stops dead in the middle of the alley, staring at me.

"That woman has your locket," he says at last.

"I know," I reply.

He pauses, frowning. Then his eyes suddenly widen in dawning realisation. "You already knew."

I shrug. "It was nice having it confirmed, but yes, I knew."

"Why don't you just take it back?" he asks, confused.

I glance behind me. There are too many shadowy figures, too many potential eavesdroppers.

"Let's talk somewhere a little more private," I murmur, and apparate us back to the Cambridgeshire House.

**Haha! I am ahead of schedule! Should be maybe a week (or less!) until next update :)**

**Just for reference, 400,000 galleons is about 2 million pounds. Or roughly 2.5 million dollars for my American friends. Or 2.25 million euros.**

**As always, any reviews/questions/praise/worship is always most welcome.**

**Love you all,**

**Amy Grace xx**


	16. The Heir of Slytherin

I sit Tom down on the sofa in the lounge and take a seat on the plush armchair across from him. Sunlight streams in through the windows, bleaching Tom's face white and casting pools of gold across the carpet. I clasp my hands nervously together, shaking a little bit with trepidation. This is it. The moment when Tom learns the truth and either decides to help me or leaves me to die.

"Do you remember when we talked about immortality?" I begin quietly, softly.

Tom nods, brows constricted.

"And you remember what I told you about rebirth. How you have to have a link, a sort of anchor, keeping your life force in this world."

"Yes," says Tom cautiously. I wait, and after a moment his confusion subsides a little. "The locket is your anchor?" he puts forward gingerly.

"Correct," I say. "Unfortunately, your mother was unaware of this. Otherwise she never would've sold it to Borgin and Burke's."

"That was my mother?" Tom asks.

"In her defence," I amend, "she was desperate. Regrettably, desperation and ignorance are not the best combination."

"So what does that mean for you?" Tom ventures curiously.

I lean back in the armchair, sinking into the soft cushions, and clench my fingers tightly together. Then I take a deep breath.

"The locket must remain in my bloodline," I begin. "That's how the magic works. But the chain was broken by your mother, and the only way to fix it is for you to reclaim the locket." I pause for a second, then add: "Also you may need to kill all the people who've owned it since your mother sold it."

Tom raises his eyebrows. "You want me to kill Hepzibah Smith? And the owners of Borgin and Burke's?"

I shrug a little guiltily. "It's not like you haven't killed before," I say sheepishly.

"What?" he says distractedly.

"Come on, Tom," I say. "I know you killed your father. And your grandparents. I've seen you wearing Marvolo's ring. You could have only got that from Little Hangleton. But that's not relevant right now. What's important is that you go to Hepzibah Smith's house, reclaim the locket and then my immortality should be restored."

"Why do you want to be immortal?" Tom asks suddenly, frowning and folding his arms.

That takes me by surprise. "Excuse me?" I say, more out of shock than anything else.

Tom shrugs. "You've said more than once that immortality is a curse. And you said that I should never attempt to become immortal. Why not just live out a mortal life with me?"

I swallow nervously, avoiding his gaze. He has a point. Except that he couldn't possibly understand why I have to be immortal. And yet I owe him the truth. That is the only way he'll agree to take back the locket. And I have to get that locket back; it is absolutely essential.

"When I was very young," I begin slowly, "I met a seer in Paris. And she- she told me that I had a great destiny. That it was my fate to vanquish a terrible evil. She said that I could only die once I had accomplished that. So that's why I have to stay alive: I'm still waiting for my purpose to be fulfilled."

"What evil?" Tom asks after a long moment.

"I don't know," I reply honestly.

There is another, long, horrible silence.

Eventually, Tom says "So you've been using me. All this time. You just need me so that you can stay immortal."

I shrug. "That was my original intention. I told you, Tom, remember? I'm selfish, and backstabbing, and cruel. But—" I add hastily as his eyes begin to narrow, "I didn't account for one thing." I stand up and walk over to Tom, kneeling at the foot of the sofa and taking his hands in my own. "I didn't anticipate just how much I would come to genuinely care about you. You're my best friend, Tom. And the only family I have left. Don't underestimate that."

He won't look at me. "How can I believe anything you say?" he asks bitterly at last.

I grin: it's clear that he's coming around. This is just his half-hearted attempt at prolonging the discomfort of this conversation for me. It fails spectacularly. He's never been able to stay mad at me for long; we both know that he'll forgive me soon enough. I'm talented enough at talking my way out of problems and Tom is desperate enough to keep our friendship intact that any conflict is sure to be solved quickly. Which is fortunate, since I've come to value his companionship.

"Use legilimency and look in my mind," I say confidently, "or pour veritaserum down my throat. I don't care. But I swear to you that I'm telling the truth."

At last, he smiles faintly at me. "That won't be necessary," he says quietly.

"Good," I say, standing up and pulling him to his feet. "Now," I begin, grinning fiercely, "let's work out how we're going to steal that locket."

We spend several weeks planning out the operation. The magic of the locket, as I tell Tom, is delicate. If we make the slightest mistake, it has the potential to kill me. So we plot out every possible outcome, account for every eventuality. I teach Tom some advanced spells: dangerous enchantments that can't be learned from textbooks. It's a testament to the amount of raw power in his blood that he manages to master them so quickly. I'd forgotten, I realise, just how powerful he is. It was easy to overlook his strength due to my own superior knowledge of magic, but now I remember that he is the prodigy of his generation, the heir to a mighty bloodline. I feel a bit like a proud parent when he succeeds in learning a new spell, except it's a bit odd acting as a mentor to someone biologically the same age as me; I still think of myself as seventeen, even if I have memories and experiences stretching back over hundreds of years. That's one of the benefits, I suppose, to rebirth over other forms of immortality. I never have to grow old.

We choose a night. We make sure that everything is in place. We go over the plan. I hate that I have so little participation in it, but unfortunately, it's up to Tom to do all the important parts. I'm just there to ensure everything runs smoothly. It's Tom who must take back the locket. It is his purpose, his destiny and his blood-right.

He is, after all, the Heir of Slytherin.

**I would like to point out that, by complete fluke, this chapter turned out exactly 1111 words long, and that was so satisfying to me that I couldn't bear to edit it at all. I do love a nice palindrome :)**

**Next chapter is the pendant pilfering! The locket larceny! The necklace nicking! …The trinket thievery? …The bauble burglary? (Help me out here guys, I need to come up with a name for the next chapter and alliteration is too good to resist.)**

**Love you always,**

**Amy Grace xx**


	17. The Locket Larceny

We take care of Borgin and Burke first. Knockturn Alley is silent, deserted, any would-be wanderers deterred by the wards I place along the street. It's not difficult to unlock the door to the shop with a casual flick of my fingers, nor is it a challenge to silence the jangle of the ancient bell. The inside of the store is deathly still, even particles of dust seeming to be suspended, frozen, in the lengthy shadows. A few jewels wink lazily at us from their cabinets, their cut crystal picking up the dim light of the crescent moon.

_Make it quick,_ I say into Tom's mind.

He nods, and soundlessly navigates his way though the store, ascending the wooden ladder to the apartment above. While he's gone, I pass the time by filching artefacts off the shelves. A silver goblet, a fat sapphire ring, a green glass bottle.

There are two flashes of green light from upstairs, then Tom emerges, climbing down the ladder. He walks calmly, unperturbed, towards me.

_All done?_ I ask.

_All done_, he confirms.

_Good,_ I reply.

The next stop is Hepzibah Smith's house. I've broken into it enough times for it to be as easy as breathing, but this time it's Tom who must enter. He deftly disables the spells around the property like I've showed him, then points his wand at the door to unlock it. The lock clicks, and the door swings open on silent hinges. Tom pauses on the doorstep, looking back at me for reassurance. I nod, and he pads quietly into the house, leaving me resigned to my vigil at the front gate. Restlessly, I begin to tap my foot, drawing my cloak around me. It's frustrating, not being able to take the locket back myself, but if it means that I'll remain immortal, I have to trust that Tom is capable of doing it. Even now, I can imagine him stealing through the plush, carpeted rooms, gliding along like a deadly phantom towards his prey.

A flash of green light through a window, the glare muted by a lace curtain, and I exhale in relief. Now he must be making his way to the living room, opening the glass cabinet and plucking the locket from its bed of silk cushions. Cradling the cold metal in his cold hands, tracing the trickle of emeralds with his long fingers. Feeling the gold warm to his touch, as if in recognition. Whispering the words we have practiced, over and over.

_Ego herede de Slytherin. Per meum sanguinem: meus es tu. Quia ego dici tibi, optime, tu ad verum dominus restituere. Unde, cum malum sit indirecta, quod injuriam curari nequeas. Et cum ultra domus mea est in genere!_

There is a blinding flash, golden light streaming out of every window. The ground shudders, and a powerful wind throws me backwards. I sprawl onto the damp grass, the blades tickling my face. The world is at once utterly still and silent, even the rustling trees quieting down.

And then there's pain, so much pain, spreading like liquid mercury through my veins, like a searing fire consuming my insides. My blood is freezing and my flesh is melting and my head is imploding and my heart is being squeezed and shredded and daggers are forcing their way out through my skin and I can't breathe for the unending agony of it.

When I awaken, it's to Tom standing over me, giving me a gentle shake, an expression of mild concern on his face.

"Salazar?" he asks quietly.

The pain is gone. Instead, I'm left feeling oddly light, as if gravity has suddenly lessened its hold on me. I rise to my feet, quickly, smoothly, gracefully, and see the world in greater depth and colour. I place a hand to my chest, feel the steady heartbeat. I touch my throat, feel the incessant thrum of blood pulsing past my fingers. Then I look at Tom, and the ancient locket resting around his neck as if it's always been there.

"Did it work?" he asks gently.

His voice sounds slightly muffled, as if he's speaking underwater.

"I think so," I reply, and my voice is similarly distant. I blink a few times, shake my head to try and clear it.

"Let's go home," he says, taking me by the elbow.

"Yes," I hear myself say vacantly.

He apparates us back to the Cambridgeshire House, and leads me through the front door like I'm a lost child. I let him guide me to the kitchen, sit me down whilst he pours us both a measure of firewhisky. He hands me a tumbler, and I take it automatically, the glass heavy in my hand. I worry for a second that it's just going to slip through my phantom fingers and smash on the floor. Cautiously, I take a tiny sip, then lower it delicately to the table. I barely feel the burning down my throat.

Tom joins me at the table, taking a larger mouthful of whisky. His hands are steady, calm. He watches me with a composed gaze. There's something more settled in him, now he wears the locket. Something serene, unruffled.

"I want to go to Albania," I say softly, after a long moment.

Tom narrows his eyes. "Why?" he asks.

"My cave…" I begin, trailing off as my eyes begin to lose focus. I give myself a little shake, try to force my spirit back into reality. "I need to visit my cave," I restart, a little stronger. "It's where I- I do my rituals. To make my new forms. So I can- come back. To life. I just need to make sure that everything went well. That there aren't any- complications."

Tom nods in understanding. "We can leave tomorrow."

I shake my head. "No. I have to do this- alone. The cave won't let anyone but me in."

"Okay," he replies a little warily, his brows contracting.

"Tom," I say, taking his hand. My voice is faint, my eyelids drooping. I sway somewhat in my chair. "Thank you."

And with that, I fall unconscious at the table.

**Sorry it's been so long since I last updated! I've unfortunately been suffering from a wee bit of writer's block, but, fingers crossed, I'm back in the game now, and hopefully should have another chapter out before long.**

**Thanks for getting this far with me :)**

**Amy Grace xx**


	18. Eighteen Years (and some muffins)

I awaken, in the clothes from the night before, in my bed, still with that sense of lightness, of floating, of something being _not right_. My limbs feel oddly weak, my movements sluggish, as if I'm dragging myself through a thick liquid.

I wander along to the kitchen, see Tom already stood at the stove, boiling the kettle. The sight seems too ordinary, too normal. Steam from the kettle's spout fogs up the cold metal of the locket around his neck, which sways as he bends over to fish a teaspoon out of a drawer.

"Morning," he says over his shoulder.

I collapse into a chair. After a minute or so, he places a scalding mug of tea before me, mist rising off it in tendrils.

"Thank you," I say quietly, wrapping my hands around the mug. It should be burning my palms, but all I feel is faint warmth.

"Are you alright?" he asks, concern lacing his voice, as he sits opposite me, fingers curled around the handle of his own mug.

"I will be," I say wearily. "Once I've been to Albania."

"You sure you don't want me to come with you?" he presses, a slight frown in place. I shake my head in response.

"It shouldn't take long," I begin, after a short pause. "I'll be back by tomorrow morning. Just sit tight and hang onto that locket for me."

He nods, touching the locket absentmindedly. "Okay."

We drink our tea together, eat breakfast together. I pack, prepare to leave. We say our goodbyes. I embrace Tom tightly, the metal of the locket pressing against my collarbone. Once we've released each other, I smile up at him, take his hands in my own. In them, there is the promise of a new beginning, a new life, a new family. My blood, my heir, my brother and most of all, my friend. I feel, for the first time in a long while, hope blossoming in my chest.

"I'll be back before you know it," I say, giving his hands a gentle squeeze. Then I walk out the door and, with one final glance over my shoulder, I disapparate.

My cave in the mountains. I walk through the entrance, out of the bitter chill of the air, and into a long tunnel. It's eerily quiet inside, the howling wind of the summits silenced by the ancient cavern walls. Little green pockets of fire ignite to light my way, their emerald glimmer glistening off the bedrock.

I round a corner, and the cave widens into a vast subterranean cavity. Crystals sprawl across all surfaces, their bluish glow bathing the cavern in a watery tint. Stalactites drip from the ceiling, some so consumed by quartz that they glitter like ghostly chandeliers. In one corner, there is a large, ancient mirror, covered in a dusty sheet. The cave is filled with rows of black stone altars, carved with whorls and symbols and forgotten hieroglyphs. And upon most of the altars lie bodies in varying stages of completion. Some are faceless; others are missing limbs.

I approach the line of completed forms, making my way towards the one altar whose engravings blaze a brilliant green. On it lies a beautiful man, about twenty or so, with flawless dark skin and rich, unseeing, onyx eyes. My next body, were I to die suddenly and unexpectedly.

I check the altar, ensure the necromancy is still working, inspect my enchantments. All appears to be in order. As if reassured by this, I feel my body begin to lose its lightness, sluggishness.

My attention is suddenly caught by a different body, a few altars down. I move towards it, sensing something oddly familiar about its appearance. Of course, I know that I must've made it, but most of my completed bodies were grown so long ago that I don't usually remember most of their faces until I come to wear them.

Her whole face, cast with blue shadows, comes into view, and I stop dead. How many times have I seen that face, as lifeless as it is now? How many times have I awoken screaming to the image of her dead eyes staring into my soul?

It's the girl from my dreams, that much is certain. The girl that is always dead, lying alongside a similarly lifeless Harry.

_You shall never perish until you have vanquished a great evil._

Is this the face of my future? The face of my fate? The body which, with its death, will finally drag with it my spirit to the underworld?

I flinch back from the body as if burned, unable to stand gazing at its face. I turn, run towards the nearest cluster of crystals, slam to a stop before them. Sinking to my knees, I place both palms on the icy quartz, throwing my power, my magic into the rock. It begins to warm, glowing brighter and brighter and getting hotter and hotter and still I clutch onto it, piling all my strength into the milky depths. Crystals such as these can be used to channel the spirits of prophets- but only if the summoner is powerful enough.

"My future," I gasp out, straining. "I need to know my future."

And then the heat disperses from under my fingers, and the sapphire glow of the crystal leaches upwards to form a shimmering, translucent blue figure: a woman dressed in the robes of an ancient Greek priestess. She gazes down at me, her face grave.

"Salazar," she says, and her ancient voice reverberates around the cavern. "It was foretold that you would summon me."

I go to speak, but she holds up a finger to silence me.

"Your destiny has been long in the making, Salazar," she continues. "Everything that has happened to you has led you here. And your fate shall lead you a while longer."

"I want to know my future," I say, my voice surprisingly strong.

"And you shall hear it," she replies. "You, who have sought so long to be immortal, shall be the architect of your own undoing. You shall create your own greatest foe, and he will bind your lives together so that one's death shall spell certain doom for the other. Friend shall become enemy, and war will ensue, a war that can only be ended by the deaths of three that cannot die."

My heart feels as if it has stopped beating. "So I will die?" I whisper.

"It is as I have said," she replies, and dissolves into mist. The crystal remains dull and colourless, its life utterly drained.

I get to my feet gingerly, my mind heavy with the words of the prophecy, and stumble over to the girl's body. If she is to be my fate, I must prepare.

Wearily, I begin the complex rituals that will make her skin the next one I wear. The altar that bears her body is glowing bright green by the time I depart.

I only spend one night in the cave, but the burden of the prophecy makes it feel like an eternity. The sight of the Cambridgeshire House, with its familiar red bricks and clawing ivy, is immensely reassuring as I arrive back, thinking of Tom, and how we'll drink champagne from crystal flutes in celebration, lounging on a picnic rug in the garden, the bright summer flowers bursting around us, the sun warming our faces. A carefree life, all worries put behind us.

I open the front door, calling out Tom's name.

There's no reply, but I'm not deterred, strolling into the kitchen, perhaps to catch him in the act of making some tea, but he's not there. I try the lounge, with no success. Frowning a little, I walk towards his bedroom and ease the door open cautiously, calling out his name again.

Nothing. The room is completely empty, the covers on the bed made neatly, everything folded away and tidied to perfection.

"He's not here," says an unfamiliar voice from behind me.

I spin instantly, wand raised, to face a young woman. Something about her is oddly familiar, but I'm certain that I've never seen her before. She wears a simple yellow summer dress, complete with an apron and a pair of oven gloves slung casually over one shoulder, her hair pulled back.

"Who are you?" I ask, my wand still raised defensively.

She glances at my wand dismissively and begins walking away. "Come," she calls over her shoulder. "I have muffins in the oven that are just about ready to come out."

Left with little alternative, I follow her dutifully to the kitchen, which is now filled with the comforting aroma of baking. The woman opens the oven and fishes out a tray of fresh muffins, transferring them carefully onto a cooling rack on the table.

"Who are you?" I repeat, confused, taking a seat.

A newspaper appears on the table before me. "You might want to read that," the woman says absentmindedly, plopping another steaming muffin down.

"Not until you tell me who you are," I counter stubbornly.

She sits down across from me in Tom's chair, slinging her oven gloves back over her shoulder. "I'm the house, of course," she says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.

"What?" I ask, thrown off balance.

"The house. Why are you so surprised? You're the one who made me sentient, after all."

"You. Are the sentient form of this house," I state, somewhat in shock.

"Of course," she says. "But that's not important right now. What's essential is that you read that newspaper."

I glance down at the paper- an edition of The Daily Prophet- and unfold it, smoothing down the front page so I can read the headline.

"_You-Know-Who strikes again: sixteen dead_," I read aloud, feeling more and more confused with every word. I glance up at the woman. "What is this?"

"Read on," she says gravely.

"_Sixteen muggles have been confirmed as victims in another attack last night by the self-styled Dark Lord, bringing the total this month up to seventy-four. This was the third such attack this week for which responsibility has been claimed by the disciples of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, the so-called Death Eaters_." I look at the woman in utter bewilderment. "I don't understand."

"Look at the date," she says simply.

I do as she says. "The fifteenth of August… 1962." I frown at the paper in uncertainty. "That's impossible," I whisper. "It's 1944. I've only been gone for a day. Eighteen years can't have passed."

"What year did Merope Gaunt sell the locket?" The woman asks calmly.

"1926," I reply automatically.

"And how many years was it until the locket was back in your bloodline?"

"1926 to 1944… eighteen years," I say, a horrible, sudden realisation dawning upon me.

The woman regards me with something akin to disapproval. "You stole time, Salazar," she says sternly. "You managed to be reborn while the locket was out of your bloodline. Did you really think there wouldn't be consequences? That the universe wouldn't demand repayment?" She leans back in her chair. "You stole eighteen years from the universe. So the universe stole eighteen years from you. Just when it knew that it would do the most damage."

"Where. Is. Tom." I say through gritted teeth. This is bad, this is so much worse than I could have possibly anticipated.

"He waited for you, you know," the woman says. "Waited for a long time. But in the end, he came to the inevitable conclusion that you had used him to save your own skin- and then abandoned him."

"Where is he." I demand, panic rising with each second.

"You're clever. I'm sure you can work it out."

My brain churns through endless possibilities, but all roads seem to lead to the unthinkable. This can't be happening. I can't have finally found a friend like Tom, only to have him snatched away from me. This must be some kind of cruel joke.

And yet I know, somehow, in the very marrow of my bones, that the house speaks the truth. Even if the loss of Tom is a concept too horrible to come to terms with.

I stand up, suddenly, out of my chair. "I know where I have to go," I say abruptly. There's one person who I can trust, who might know where Tom is, who might be able to clear all of this up.

The woman- the house- just sits there, eating a muffin.

"Tell me," I say haltingly, as I turn to go, "the dark lord in the article. Is it Tom?" My voice breaks slightly with the anguish of those words.

The woman looks at me with sad eyes. "Tom is your best friend," she says quietly. "But it is his fate to be your worst enemy."

Slowly, she fades away, leaving a rack of cooling muffins behind on the table.

**Sorry :)**

**In my defence, we can't possibly have a happy ending just yet. This is where the fun (and crying) begins!**

**As always, thanks for sticking with me.**

**Amy Grace xx**


	19. Tom is an Idiot

It's raining as I arrive outside the towering iron gates to Malfoy Manor. I don't bother conjuring an umbrella, instead letting the downpour soak into my scalp and run in rivulets down my skin. The marble columns of the manor are blurred by the rain, the overcast sky giving them a greyish tint.

I stride purposefully up the steps to the house and pull the metal chain to ring the doorbell. A bedraggled peacock scurries past me, seeking shelter from the rain. I expect I look similarly dishevelled, with my wet hair plastered to my skull and my skin bone-white with cold, but my mind is too occupied to bother with my appearance.

The butler, a greying, middle-aged man answers the door.

"I need to speak to Abraxas Malfoy," I say, before he has a chance to open his mouth. "It's urgent."

"I'm afraid Mr. Malfoy is currently in a meeting and cannot be disturbed," the butler announces ceremoniously, and goes to close the door. I jam it open with my foot, drawing my wand swiftly and pointing it at the butler's exposed throat. He swallows nervously.

"Perhaps I did not make myself clear," I hiss, too impatient to bother being civil. "It's urgent. You will fetch Mr. Malfoy right now if you value your life."

I think my slightly unhinged appearance aids the threat. The butler eyes the wand at his throat cautiously and nods, shuffling away down the hall to get Abraxas and I wait on the doorstep, shivering and restless. After a few moments, I hear footsteps and Abraxas Malfoy appears.

I stare at him and he stares at me, paling in shock, his face going slack, his eyes wide. I can hardly believe the evidence of my own eyes, for here is Abraxas, the boy I saw at most a mere month ago, and yet he must be in his mid-thirties, dressed in a dark suit, a wedding ring on his finger and his platinum blond hair just beginning to recede. I can only imagine what he makes of me; a girl who disappeared eighteen years ago only to show up on his doorstep barely a day older.

"Evangeline?" he whispers, reaching out a hand as if to touch me, as if he's not sure I'm real. "It can't be. You're dead."

I frown slightly. "Why would I be dead, Abraxas?" I ask quietly.

"You disappeared," he breathes, fear written across his face. "We all thought- Tom had—" he breaks off for a moment, "He refused to ever mention you again. And when he came back- alone- we thought—"

"That he'd killed me?" I ask softly. Abraxas nods, not taking his eyes off me.

"But you're—" he says, his confusion evident, "You look exactly the same. How—"

"It's a long story," I say gently, cutting him off. "But not why I'm here. I have to speak to Tom. Do you know where he is?"

Abraxas flinches almost imperceptibly and doesn't answer right away.

"Sir?" says a voice from behind him. It's the butler, looking somewhat uncomfortable. "The Dark Lord has requested that you return immediately to the meeting. And that you bring your visitor with you."

I look at Abraxas in fear. "He's in there?" I whisper, my heartbeat increasing in anticipation, my hands trembling slightly. He nods shakily, not meeting my gaze.

"If you'll follow me please, sir, madam," the butler says, glancing at me apprehensively and ushering us down the hallway and through a tall, wooden door into a large meeting room, occupied by a long table around which sits men and women, some of whom I recognise from the Slytherin common room.

Silence falls as we enter. Abraxas bows, and immediately makes a beeline for an empty chair- presumably his own- on the right-hand side of the table, leaving me stood awkwardly by the door, which closes behind me. I can feel the eyes of everyone in the room upon me, but my gaze is utterly fixated on the man who sits on a throne at the head of the table, my locket around his neck.

We stare at each other wordlessly for what feels like eternity, neither one of us able to break eye contact.

It is Tom, but it isn't. His face is more angular, and white as bone. His eyes are a blazing crimson, sunken deep into his skull, his lips thin and cruel. There's something waxy about his appearance, as if he's a distorted sculpture of the Tom I knew crossed with someone entirely alien to me.

"Evangeline Chambers," he says slowly and at length, his voice breathy and quiet, yet altogether too loud, too piercing in this silence. He doesn't seem surprised, only… curious? Contemplative?

"Tom?" I ask unnecessarily. My voice is foreign, even to myself.

"The years have been _very_ kind to you," he observes softly after a moment. Is that hatred, venom, envy, lacing his words?

"I'm afraid I can't say the same for you," I reply faintly.

He smiles then, leeringly, displaying unnaturally sharp teeth, but his eyes burn with cold fire. It makes me shiver uncomfortably.

"Leave us," he says sharply to the other people in the room. As one, and without question, they stand, dutifully file out. I wait until they are all gone and it's just Tom and me, standing at opposite ends of the table, an insurmountable barrier between us.

"You kept my locket," I observe quietly.

He laughs, a high, bitter sound. "I didn't keep it for _you_," he replies harshly, such overwhelming hatred on his features.

"Then why?" I ask simply.

He sneers, walking smoothly around the table until he stands only a few feet away from me. I resist the urge to flinch away.

"You did everything you could to keep me ignorant," he hisses at me, baring his teeth. "You tried to keep me from achieving true power because you were afraid that I'd become more powerful than you. But you've failed, Salazar. I see through your lies now."

I frown. "Don't be ridiculous, Tom."

"My name," he spits out, "is Lord Voldemort." He leers at me again. "Do you want to know why?"

"I have a feeling you're going to tell me whether I want to hear it or not," I say. After all this time, he's still just an idiot.

_Your idiot_, my mind says unhelpfully.

"It means '_flight of death_' in French," he announces viciously.

I roll my eyes. "Yes, I had gathered that. I do, in fact, speak French. Now stop this insane act and come home. Please."

"You don't understand," he ploughs on, a hint of malicious glee in his eyes. It's extremely unnerving. "I don't need you anymore. Because death does indeed flee from me."

I freeze. "What have you done?" I breathe.

He holds up the locket by its chain, allows it to spin, catching the light. "This was the source of your immortality," he says triumphantly. "Well, it's the source of mine now."

The floor drops out from under me. "What have you done?" I repeat, the blood draining from my face.

"Nothing much," he says idly. "Just added a bit of… _soul_ to it."

_He will bind your lives together so that one's death shall spell certain doom for the other._

"You fool," I whisper in shock, staring at him. "Do you have any idea what you've done? You're playing with death when you make a horcrux. I toyed with death, and I lost eighteen years. You may well lose much more."

_Not just one horcrux_, he says into my mind gleefully, ignoring my words of warning.

"How many?" I ask, almost too afraid to hear the answer.

Slowly, smiling all the while, he holds up four long, pale fingers.

I shake my head, backing away. He advances towards me, sneering cruelly.

"You have meddled in things you don't understand," I warn. "There is always a price."

He raises his wand, still approaching undaunted. _I have thought of nothing but this moment for eighteen years_, he says wordlessly, his wand now pointing directly at my head. _Now, I will be the last Slytherin._

"Please don't do this," I plead in vain, backing up against the wall.

_Goodbye, Salazar_, he whispers silently, his tone mocking, his wand at my throat.

_I'm so sorry_, I reply, and stab him with my little engraved silver knife.

He lets out a choked gasp, staring at me with wide eyes. It's enough time for me to send him flying back against the far wall with a flick of my fingers. There's a nasty crack, and he falls into an unconscious heap on the floor. I walk over to his crumpled body slowly, then turn him over. He makes a soft groan as I yank out the knife, his eyelids flickering.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic," I say, my voice's forced lightness disguising my agonising heartbreak. I wipe the knife on my cloak, all too aware of the sticky blood on my hands and the unending pain in my chest. "You'll survive. You are immortal now, after all."

I pause for a moment to touch his face gently, reverently. His features are softened in sleep and with his eyes closed, I can almost imagine that it's the old Tom, my Tom, passed out from drinking long into the night with me. When I pull away, I leave bloody fingerprints on his cheekbone.

"Goodbye, Tom," I whisper, and disapparate.

**I know, I know, I'm evil. Trust me, this is breaking my heart as much as yours.**

**As always, thank you so much for reading :)**

**Amy Grace xx**


	20. The Order

**PART TWO: The Consequences**

1979

**_Lily_**

There was a strange woman, in the Order of the Phoenix.

None of us quite knew exactly who she was. Oh, we had a name, of course, but nobody quite knew where she'd come from or why she fought alongside us. There were theories and rumours, whispered between the Order's members, but none of us dared ask her to her face. She was far too intimidating for that. Nevertheless, Dumbledore trusted her- more than anyone, I think- and that was enough for us.

She was perhaps in her late twenties or early thirties, although it was hard to tell with that impossibly beautiful face. Yet even though her raven hair and pale green eyes and porcelain skin were stunning in a majestic kind of way, there was something ancient about her, something alien, something dark. She was a woman with secrets.

She'd been a part of the Order as long as anyone could remember, since it's very foundation, I think, but very few of us had even heard of her before joining. Whenever anyone asked Dumbledore about her, he was always suspiciously evasive, but Edgar Bones had once hinted that he knew something of her past. After much persuasion, he'd revealed that she had been at Hogwarts around the same time as him, but a few years above, so he'd never really known who she was. That is, until she'd disappeared mysteriously in 1944.

We weren't sure whether to believe his story. For one, he was significantly older than her- so how could she have been several years above him at school? And yet it also oddly made sense at times. The way she spoke about Voldemort, about his Death Eaters… it was as if she knew them well. As if she'd been at school with them. Plus, there was her clothing. She liked to wear wide trousers, blouses, below-the-knee skirts, red lipstick, strings of pearls. Perhaps she was just really into vintage fashion, albeit slightly gothic vintage, with her blacks and greens and purples. Or perhaps her mind was full of nostalgia, drawn towards a different time.

Once, at a meeting, we'd been discussing Voldemort's next move.

"He'll be heading towards London," Gideon had said, tracing him wand over the vast map splayed out on the table. The little hooded figures that represented the Death Eaters moved accordingly. "That's where he'll hit next."

"It makes sense," Marlene mused. "We know he's been building up for something big."

"No," Evangeline Chambers had said quietly.

We all turned to look at her. It was not often that she spoke during meetings, instead content to sit back and observe in silence, so when she deigned to speak, we all paid attention. Dumbledore looked at her sideways, his eyes narrowed slightly in something akin to concern. She leaned forward on her forearms, her pale green eyes flickering over the map.

"He knows he doesn't have the numbers for an attack on London," she began softly, but not weakly. Her fingers traced Voldemort's latest strikes lightly on the map, pausing at certain points. "When he moves on London, and he will, eventually, he wants it to be big. Showy. Extravagant. He wants no possibility of failure." Her eyes darted to another area of the map. "He's been amassing his forces, yes, but he's missing something." She looked up at us. "A weapon. Our spies tell us that he's been withdrawn, travelling a lot, only participating in a select few attacks. He's looking for something that will ensure his victory when he does move to take London."

Dumbledore stroked his beard musingly, contemplating. I glanced at James anxiously before looking back at Evangeline.

"What kind of weapon?" I asked.

She looked directly at me, and I felt the full force of those sharp green eyes boring into my own. "Knowledge," she said simply.

"What kind of knowledge?" Dumbledore asked eventually, when it became clear Evangeline wasn't going to elaborate.

Evangeline glanced at Dumbledore, and something unspoken passed between them. "Look at the last few attacks," she said, gesturing at the map. "The Sooths. The Imagos. The Vablatskys. There's a pattern here. They're all families that have had seers in their ranks." She gazed up at us, her face grave, her eyes piercing. "Voldemort wants the future."

**_Albus_**

Albus Dumbledore knew better than to act surprised when Evangeline Chambers- or rather, Salazar Slytherin- breezed into his office without warning. She liked to pop in unannounced when he least expected it, simply apparating into the headmaster's tower and waltzing through the door. As usual, she sprawled into one of his chairs, stretching out like an indolent cat.

_Salazar Slytherin_. That had been a surprise, to say the least. He'd nearly fallen out of his chair in shock when she'd apparated straight into the office one stormy September night in 1962, not a day older than she'd been eighteen years before, and declared that they needed to talk about Tom Riddle. Oh, and announced that she was also the reincarnation of the most infamous Hogwarts founder.

But in the many years since then, they'd built up a good working relationship, founding the Order of the Phoenix together, fighting side by side. He was, as far as he knew, the only one she'd trusted her secret to. Aside from Lord Voldemort.

"Do you really think he's trying to find a seer?" he asked casually, while she helped herself to a lemon sherbet. She'd definitely been more forthcoming at the latest Order meeting than she usually was, although he was perplexed as to why she hadn't spoken to him about her concerns first. Normally, they discussed all Order business together first, then decided whether it was worth the other members being notified.

"Of course," she replied nonchalantly, reaching for another sweet. "Hopefully, though, with the Order guarding all the known seers, it shouldn't be a problem." She glanced up at him. "Speaking of which, it's probably time you got yourself a new Divination professor."

He ignored her attempt to change the subject. "You don't think he'll come looking for you?"

She froze, her face becoming carefully closed off. "Why would he want to find me?" she asked stiffly after a second.

Dumbledore shrugged. "You're a seer," he said calmly. "Or at least, you have prophetic dreams."

"Yes, well," she began briskly, all business, "I hardly think that he's in a hurry to speak to me, given that last time we saw each other, I stabbed him."

There was a long moment of silence.

"You can't keep blaming yourself for what he's become," Dumbledore said quietly.

She looked away, avoiding his gaze. "Why shouldn't I? I'm the only one responsible," she declared crisply, her jaw clenched. Dumbledore sighed and leaned back in his chair.

"Lily's pregnant, by the way," he mentioned after a moment in an attempt to recover some sense of normalcy. "She told me after the meeting."

"Give her my congratulations," Salazar said shortly.

"Tell her yourself," Dumbledore replied. "She might even name the baby after you, given that you saved her life that one time."

She glanced back at him, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. "Shut up," she said. "Like Lily's ever going to name her kid something as pretentious as Evangeline."

**We made it to Part 2! So as you can see, we've jumped to 1979. Salazar/Evangeline is (biologically speaking) in her thirties and is all mixed up in the Order of the Phoenix with some very familiar characters and I'm getting very excited!**

**Just to clear it up early on, other characters are generally going to refer to Salazar/Evangeline as she/her because in my head, when Salazar gets reincarnated she finds it easier to go with whatever pronouns are typically attached to her new body. I think internally she is (and forgive me if I get this wrong) non-binary? I think that's the right word? She basically just always sees herself as Salazar, and her physical sex doesn't really bother her that much. Let's just say she's unique, and I'm not really educated enough to put an accurate label on her.**

**Anyways, thanks a bunch for getting this far. As always, I love hearing from you guys.**

**Amy Grace xx**


	21. Prophets and Prophecies

**_Salazar_**

My dreams became clearer and more varied the more I delved into my prophetic abilities. I never quite understood why my talents as a seer hadn't surfaced until recently, but I was glad for them. They provided invaluable insight into Toms plans: his targets, his activities, his recruits. Even if every time I saw his face was agony.

I dreamt that a woman was cowering in her home. Tom had his wand at her throat while she sobbed and choked and drew strangled breaths. Her eyes were wide with fear behind thick, bejewelled glasses. She backed away from him, knocking over chairs and lamps and crystal balls. A pack of old tarot cards fell and spilled across the floor, the bony illustration of the Grim Reaper smiling mockingly up at her.

_"You are a seer, aren't you?" _Tom said quietly, menacingly._ "Tell me my future." _He tilted his head, like a curious cat playing with a new toy._ "Will the attack on London be a success?"_

_"I- I cannot- that is—" _the woman sobbed incoherently, backed up into a corner. She clawed desperately at the wall behind her, her nails scraping the paintwork. _"I need time, and my equipment- I can't just- the inner eye doesn't just- but I can do it, but—"_

Tom's face darkened in disgust. _"Pathetic,"_ he said, and killed her.

"Trelawney," I said brusquely as I breezed into Dumbledore's office. "He's going after Sybil Trelawney next."

Albus didn't even bother looking up, instead nonchalantly turning the page of his magazine. "You know this how?" he asked noncommittally.

I sat down across from him. "Because I'm immensely clever and brilliant and you trust my judgment completely?" I tried.

He raised an eyebrow, flicking over another page. "Ah," he said unconcernedly. "A bad dream then, I take it?"

"I'm being serious, Albus," I said, leaning forwards on the desk. "She's the next target."

He finally deigned to look up, his piercing blue eyes narrowed somewhat. "What do you want me to do about it?" he signed, putting down his magazine. "She's already under Order protection, alongside every other known seer."

"Move her to Hogwarts," I said. He blinked, surprised. "Come on Albus. You need a Divination professor, she needs protection. It makes sense."

"Are you actually worried about her life, or what information she could give Voldemort?" Dumbledore asked sharply, frowning.

I leaned back in my chair, folding my arms. "That's not fair, Albus."

He shrugged. "I don't know why you're panicking all of a sudden. She's never made an accurate prediction of any consequence. It's unlikely that she could give him a valuable insight into the future."

"I just have a feeling," I protested. "Look, I know you're cynical of seers, but you have to trust me. I think that Trelawney might be important."

He was silent for a moment. "Fine," he assented at last. "I'll let her have an interview for the post of Divination professor."

"Good," I said, satisfied.

The job interview took place in a room above the Hog's Head Inn. Aberforth was guarding the entrance, whilst other Order members patrolled outside or mingled with the customers at the bar. Albus conducted the interview- a tedious formality- with a nervous Trelawney, whilst I stood, invisible and unheard, in the corner to monitor the proceedings. It was a wet and stormy night, and there was something ominous about the creaking wood and rattling windows, something portentous. The weather seemed to be an omen, although of what, I couldn't be sure.

I could tell that the interview was taxing for Albus. It was clear that he thought Trelawney was a fraud, although he dealt with her with patience. I observed her all the while for any signs of her hidden ability, for any indications of her possessing some kind of foreknowledge. This, I would later learn, was a grave mistake, for it took my attention away from checking for intruders or eavesdroppers.

Albus was just about to conclude the meeting when it happened. Trelawney stiffened, almost imperceptibly, and her eyes took on a milky, glazed quality. Her hands curled into fists and she made a strangled noise, as if something was forcing its way up her throat. I started forwards, my first thought being that someone had attacked her with some kind of hex, but she immediately began to speak in a voice that was not of this world. It was ancient and powerful and terrifying.

_"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives."_

Then she shuddered, and coughed, and blinked, and it was all over. She stared, slightly bemused, at Dumbledore's white face, but he recovered quickly, thanking her for her time and shaking her hand. Soon, she was out the door and on her way.

I materialised, almost unconsciously, from where I had stood, invisible. The words of her prophecy repeated themselves like a mantra in my head in time with the thunder outside. They reminded me horribly of the prophecy I had received that night in the cave. I shuddered, and the two prophecies became one, twisting together into a distorted chant that echoed through my thoughts.

_He will bind your lives together so that one's death shall spell certain doom for the other. Neither can live while the other survives. You shall create your own greatest foe. Either must die at the hand of the other._

"What does it mean?" Albus whispered, as shocked as me. When I didn't reply, he turned to look at me, his face deathly pale. "Is it about you?"

"Alice Longbottom and Lily Potter are both pregnant," I said quietly after a while, my hands clenching and unclenching. "When are their children due?"

Dumbledore was silent for a moment. "End of July," he said at last, his voice low.

I collapsed into one of the chairs wearily. "All these prophecies," I began softly, sorting through the sea of clues and hints in my head. "First that seer in Paris. Then my visions. Then the priestess in the cave. Now Trelawney." I looked up at Dumbledore. "Something big is coming. A war that has been written in the stars for generations." Suddenly, on impulse, I stood up and marched towards the door, wrenching it open, glancing back at Albus. "We must be ready for when it comes."

"Any problems?" I asked Aberforth as I prepared to leave the Hog's Head.

"We did have an issue with an eavesdropper," he said gruffly, "but that's all sorted now. We soon threw him out."

I stared at him in horror. There was no telling what an eavesdropper could have heard- and be passing on to Tom that very second. What if he told Tom what the prophecy had said?

As I disapparated, I had the awful feeling that I'd managed to prevent my dream and Trelawney's death- but caused something even worse instead.

Neville Longbottom was born on the 30th July. I was at St. Mungo's, visiting him and his parents on the 31st when I received the news that Lily too, had given birth. After cooing at the little baby and congratulating his parents, I made my excuses and wandered just down the ward to where the Potters were. They were surprised, but grateful, to see me. James held in his arms a tiny child, and I felt a sudden ache in my chest. Here was the paternal love that I had failed to ever give- or receive.

The Potters let me hold their baby. I did so with great trepidation, but felt it would be rude to refuse, so I cradled him and rocked him in my arms.

"What's his name?" I asked, absorbed by his wonderfully green eyes. Green, like his mother's… and my own.

"Harry," Lily said, smiling wearily with parental affection.

I nearly dropped the baby.

They must've sensed something was off. Perhaps the blood had drained from my face, or I looked nauseous. "You don't like it?" Lily asked, concerned.

I forced a smile. "No, I- I love it. I just- I knew someone called Harry, once. It was a long time ago." I gazed back down at little Harry, something like guilt clawing at my heart. "Harry suits him very well," I amended. "He will make a very great sorcerer. And he couldn't ask for better parents."

They smiled and thanked me. I stayed a while, entranced by Harry, but I eventually gave him back, somewhat reluctantly, to his parents, and made my farewells before other visitors could arrive.

Later that week, I was back in Dumbledore's office.

"Have you visited the Longbottoms and the Potters yet?" he asked causally, his voice muffled by a sherbet lemon. I answered in the affirmative, which he took as indication to continue. "Which do you think is the child in the prophecy?"

"Harry," I answered instantly.

"You're sure?"

"Positive."

He sighed. "We ought to put them both under protection anyway. We might know which child it is, but if Voldemort did hear the prophecy, he still won't know who it refers to. He could go for either one."

"Tom will go for Harry," I said, shame creeping into my voice. "He knows that I used to have dreams about someone called Harry. He'll make the leap easily."

Albus looked at me with unbearable pity in his sharp blue eyes. "You are not responsible for this," he said quietly.

I smiled bitterly, shaking my head. "I am every bit responsible. I chose to become immortal. I chose to put that immortality above Tom. I was stupid, and arrogant. I thought I could cheat death. And now the consequences are catching up to me. It is me, and no one else, who is responsible for what Tom has become. What he's done. It's my fault that he now wants Harry dead. Every single death in this fight falls on my head. And the war that is to come? That, too, is my doing." I laughed, half-hysterically. "And now my punishment is being forced to fight my best friend- or watch him destroy this world."


	22. I Wouldn't Worry About It

_Lily_

Evangeline- to our eternal surprise- began visiting us regularly, both in the hospital and then our house. She said it was to help us out, and, although I was grateful for the help she did provide in giving both James and I a moment's peace, I suspected that really she just came around to see Harry. There was this quiet joy and wonder in her eyes when we let her hold him, as if she'd never seen a baby before. Harry, for his part, seemed to like her, content to let her cradle and sing to him.

It was a change from the Evangeline we'd known up to that point. She'd always been withdrawn, mysterious. We never saw her outside of Order meetings. She never divulged any personal information. No one even knew when her birthday was. And yet now she became a consistent feature in our lives, volunteering to babysit almost as much as Sirius, buying Harry a stuffed owl, helping around the house. Neither James nor I quite knew what to make of it.

One evening when she showed up, her face was grave, her eyes serious. We knew instantly that something was wrong, but she refused to talk until both James and I were sat down in the living room.

"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this," she began solemnly, "but unfortunately there has been a threat against you. Albus and I have discussed it, and we both feel that it would be best if you went into hiding as soon as possible."

James and I glanced at each other. "We both knew the risks when we signed up with the Order," I said, frowning. "I don't see why we need to go into hiding now."

Evangeline shook her head. "You don't understand," she replied, a note of sadness in her voice. "The threat isn't against you two." She paused, wringing her hands together. "Harry is the one that Voldemort's after."

"What?" James exclaimed. I was inclined to agree with his reaction. Harry was just a child, barely a month old. Why on earth would Voldemort want him dead?

Evangeline looked down at her hands. "There was a prophecy," she began quietly, as if she'd known exactly what was going through my head. "About a child who would have the power to defeat Voldemort once and for all. Anyway, it turns out that one of the Death Eaters heard the prophecy and recited it to Voldemort, who now believes that the child in question is your son."

I glanced unconsciously towards the nursery upstairs, where Harry was currently sleeping. Could it be true? Could my tiny son be the key to ending this war?

There was a moment of silence before Evangeline spoke again, this time with hesitation in her voice. "Lily," she said awkwardly, "I think you should know that… Severus Snape was the one who gave information on the prophecy to Voldemort."

I flinched and James swore. Severus and I had parted ways a long time ago and I'd known he was a Death Eater, but this… this hurt. It felt personal. It felt like a betrayal.

Evangeline gazed at me sadly. "I know something of what its like to find yourself fighting against your friends in this war. Many of the Death Eaters were people I went to school with, people in the same house as me, people I liked. I'm sorry for what you must be going through."

I regarded her in shock. She'd never before outright said that she'd known any of the Death Eaters, much less been friends with them. It explained why she always talked so familiarly about them, how she could predict their movements, their actions so well.

"I recommend that you move house as soon as possible and put yourselves under the Fidelius Charm," she continued. "It's powerful protection magic, it should serve to keep you safe. The Order will take care of additional protection, and help with anything you need."

James reached for my hand and I took it, squeezing gently. There was something very real, very frightening about this threat. Perhaps it was because Evangeline was taking it so seriously, or because it was not our lives in danger- but Harry's. "How long do you think it'll be for?" I asked, my brow creasing with worry.

Evangeline shrugged helplessly. "We have no way of knowing," she said simply, her eyes full of regret.

She left soon after that, having gone through the best way to protect ourselves first, ensuring we understood the importance of every detail. There was something oddly guilty about her manner, as if she was the one to blame for all of this- which was, of course, ridiculous.

And so we went into hiding. We moved to Godric's Hollow, because Dumbledore knew the place well- apparently, he'd grown up there. Bought a house, warded it with every possible enchantment. Cast the Fidelius Charm, with Peter as our secret keeper. Peter, because we knew that Sirius would be the obvious choice, the one Voldemort would go after. We said our goodbyes, withdrew from the outside world.

Evangeline came to visit us, just before we went into hiding. There was an air of infinite sadness surrounding her, and I felt a surge of pity, remembering her comment about having friends in the Death Eaters. I understood the torment, the conflict that that could cause.

She held Harry for a while, rocking him gently and whispering something unintelligible to him. Then she sat down with us over a cup of tea, her expression grave.

"Have you made a will?" she asked. "If the worst should happen."

James and I both nodded.

"If I may ask…" she began, hesitating, "What would happen to Harry?"

"We decided he should be brought up by the Longbottoms, alongside Neville," I said, trying to keep my voice level, as if I wasn't not talking about a scenario in which both James and I were both dead. "If they can't take him, then he would go to Sirius, as his godfather."

Evangeline nodded, unspeakable sobriety guttering in her eyes. "Good," she said quietly. She paused for a moment, wringing her hands absentmindedly before speaking again. "I just want to promise you," she resumed, "that I will do everything in my power to protect Harry. Always. I will keep him safe. I swear it on my life."

"Thank you," James said, sounding as surprised as I felt at Evangeline's words.

That was the last time we saw her.

_Salazar_

"I don't trust Peter Pettigrew," I said to Dumbledore, propping my feet up on his desk in a feeble attempt to imitate the swagger and bravado I'd once exuded.

He glanced at me over the top of the book he was reading. _A Sicilian Romance_, it said on the cover in looped, magenta text, over a watercolour of an idyllic coastline. "Why?" he asked absentmindedly, flicking over a page.

I shrugged. "He's afraid."

"We're all afraid," Dumbledore replied nonchalantly.

I shook my head. "No, this is different. We're afraid, yes, but we're not cowards. I've glimpsed into his mind, and all I see is fear. He wants to run away from this fight. And people who want to run often run right into the other side's arms."

Albus put his book down slowly. "We're not cowards?" he repeated pointedly, his eyebrows raised.

I looked at the floor in order to avoid his gaze. "Well, perhaps you and I are," I conceded quietly, "but we are also powerful enough to get away with it. Peter is not."

Dumbledore picked his book back up and resumed reading. "I wouldn't worry about it," he said. "Peter may be a coward, but he also knows that he's infinitely safer staying with us. But keep an eye on him if it makes you feel better."

I stood up. "You're probably right," I said wearily, grabbing my coat off the chair and preparing to disapparate. "I'll see you tomorrow."


	23. Halloween

_Salazar_

**_31_****_st_****_ October, 1981_**

Nearly a year and a half passed, with no move from Tom. Oh, he kept up his attacks, recruiting more followers and working his way steadily towards the Ministry, but he was yet to try to kill Harry. I hoped it was because our protection was working and the Secret Keeper, whoever that might be- although it was widely presumed to be Sirius- had not betrayed us.

It was Halloween, and the Order was holding a small party in an attempt to boost morale, but it only heightened the sense of loss for those who were not present. We'd lost so many over the years, in our fight, but still we were no closer to defeating Tom. I felt awfully responsible. If only I'd managed to find Tom's horcruxes, I could've killed him long ago. But the answers to where Tom had stashed them were locked away in his mind, and he was powerful enough now that I couldn't break down his mental shields. All thanks to the training in Occlumency I'd given him so long ago.

Although even if I found and destroyed all the horcruxes, could I really bring myself to kill Tom? There was a part of me that hoped, despite everything that he'd done, that he'd repent and be reconciled with me. It was a foolish hope, and I hated myself for retaining it.

Perhaps it was fortunate, then, that my hands were tied. The locket was now a horcrux, and in order for Tom to die, it had to be destroyed. But I was certain that its destruction would also kill me. The laws of magic had already showed me all too painfully what would happen if I tried to steal time. They would not be so forgiving again.

I sat morosely in the corner under the orange bunting, too lost in thought to finish my drink. There was laughter from across the room, but it was muffled and far away. I had an odd sense of foreboding, a prickling of my skin, a tightness in my lungs. Maybe it was because last night, I had dreamt not of Harry's death, but of Tom's. He had been sprawled across a thick, woolly rug, his limbs at odd angles and his skin near-transparent. I think there had been lightning, too, but it was green, illuminating the corpse in sudden flashes.

Suddenly, the door burst open on its hinges and Alastor Moody staggered in. He was drenched from the downpour outside and the orange glow of the pumpkin lanterns cast a grotesque shadow over his scarred face. His expression was grave, and somehow, I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth.

"The Potters' house—" he began, gasping and out of breath "- just exploded."

Of course. He'd been one of the Order members stationed around Godric's Hollow. I felt dread pool in my stomach, but I squashed it down. Now was not a time for guilt.

I stood up. "Everyone stay here," I ordered loudly. "No one is to leave this room. I'll report back when I have more news."

Dumbledore stood to block me as I headed brusquely to the door, but I brushed past him. "Evangeline," he called out after me, but I ignored him, disapparating as soon as I was out of sight. I didn't have time to bother with his cautions.

It was raining in Godric's Hollow when I materialised there. I knew instantly that something was very wrong because I could see the Potters' house when it should have been invisible. That meant the Fidelius Charm had been broken. We had been betrayed.

The house was a smoking ruin, with most of the roof missing and the walls blackened. I passed through the open front gate carefully, my wand out, and ducked in through the splintered hole where a door should have been.

The first body I saw was James'. He was crumpled on the hallway floor, his glasses askew, and yet he looked for all the world as if he could be sleeping. He hadn't even had time to draw his wand in defence.

I crept up the crooked staircase, having to stoop under where the ceiling had caved in. Many of the walls had collapsed, and I was forced to navigate my way through a labyrinth of rubble to reach the nursery. When I finally emerged, it was into a shattered shell of a room, the roof completely blasted off and replaced by a ceiling of stars. The rain had stopped, and all was silent.

Lily was dead on the floor, her hair strewn over her face, but it was not her corpse that fixated me. Instead, I was drawn to the body resting on the thick, woollen nursery rug.

Tom looked like he had after I'd stabbed him, his expression mild and peaceful. I knelt down beside him, cradled his face gently in my hands. His skin was cold, any blood long since settled. I bowed my head, taking his stiff, lifeless body in my arms and embracing him tightly.

"You idiot," I whispered into his shoulder, my voice breaking, through shameful tears. "You stupid, arrogant, foolish idiot."

I released, a long, shaky breath before placing him reverently back onto the floor. His head lolled to one side and I noted that he was no longer wearing my locket. There was no telling where he might have hidden it to keep it from me.

I stood, swaying unsteadily, looking down at him, drinking in his appearance, however inhuman and lifeless it now was. Then I gave him a sharp kick in the ribs.

"I know you're not dead," I hissed through gritted teeth, tears still clogging up my throat. "Stop pretending to be dead."

But he did not move, did not suddenly spring back to life. Whatever shredded, mangled piece of soul that had once resided in that body had long since abandoned its mortal shell. Tom was still alive- he must be- but he now lived without a body. The corpse before me was nothing more than an empty casket.

A soft cry from behind me brought me back into the present. I turned, and saw Harry squirming in his little cot. Feeling a stab of guilt for ignoring him in favour of Tom, I went over to him and picked him up, rocking him gently and whispering meaningless words of comfort. That was when I noticed it.

The scar was horrific, a jagged tendril of lightning sprawling across one side of his forehead. It was no ordinary wound, that was for certain. There was something terrifying about it, something unnatural.

I glanced back down at the bodies on the floor. Had Lily killed Tom? But if that were the case, who had killed Lily? Or if Tom had murdered her, how was he now lying dead on the rug? I looked back at Harry, who had fallen back asleep.

_And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal._

Was the scar that mark? Did this tiny child really have the power to defeat Tom? Is that what had happened tonight?

There was a strangled cry from behind me, and I turned to see Severus Snape standing in the ruined doorway, a look of abject horror on his face. My wand was in my hand instantly, pointed at his head, my other arm cradling Harry protectively, but there was no need. He sank to his knees in wretched despair, his horrified gaze on Lily's corpse.

He looked at her the way I'd looked at Tom, I realised.

He attempted to crawl towards her, but I moved to block his path. Startled, he raised his gaze to mine, his eyes wide, as if noticing me for the first time.

"You did this," I spat savagely. Perhaps it wasn't entirely true, but it felt good to blame someone else. He flinched.

"Please," he whispered, tears coursing down his face.

I wanted to hurt him. I wanted to hurt him so badly. I wanted to tear his limbs apart slowly and bleed him dry. I wanted to gouge out his heart and squeeze it until it stopped. I wanted him to feel every single second of the pain I'd felt over the last nineteen years

"I tried—" he began, sobbing. "I tried to stop him, to get him to spare her—"

"I don't care about her," I hissed, tears running down my own cheeks. "I care that he's gone. I only wanted him stopped, I- I never wanted him to die. And now, thanks to you, he might as well be dead."

I was, I realised, a decidedly terrible person. And I didn't particularly care.

My fingers curled into fists, cutting off his air supply. He gasped, choking, his hands going to his throat, and I levitated him off the floor. I watched him flail and struggle, his limbs thrashing about, and sealed his airway even tighter. His face slowly began turning purple. The house rumbled and shook around us, the walls groaning and cracks appearing in the floor. Lightning flashed from clouds that began to blacken and swirl overhead.

I was so consumed by my murderous intent, I didn't even notice Dumbledore and Sirius Black arrive, racing up the stair into the ruined nursery. Dumbledore was shouting something, but I couldn't hear him over the deafening shaking of the house and the claps of thunder. He advanced towards me, buffeted by the wind, but I paid him little heed until he stepped between me and Severus.

"Stop this, Evangeline!" he roared over the noise, his cold blue eyes simmering.

I paused, almost surprised to see him standing there. Then I glanced down at Harry, sleeping soundly in my arms.

As if emerging from a trance, I dropped Severus, relinquishing my hold on his throat. He sprawled across the floor, gasping and coughing. Sirius was upon him instantly with a look that suggested he wanted to finish the job, but one glance from Dumbledore restrained him.

"Why are you here?" I asked hoarsely.

"Give me the child," he said gently.

"No," I replied, shaking my head and clinging onto Harry a bit tighter.

"Evangeline," he began, trying to placate me, but I took a step back, shaking my head again. He sighed with a touch of sadness. "You don't trust me, do you," he said mournfully.

"Of course I don't trust you," I said, still backing away. "For all I know, you could be the traitor. Or he could," I added, gesturing towards Sirius.

Sirius looked furious at the suggestion, and opened his mouth to speak, but Dumbledore cut him off. "Look into our minds if you have to," he said resolutely. "Use veritaserum. But I think you already know who the real traitor is."

"Pettigrew," I breathed. So I had been right after all. Sirius blanched, his face as pale as death. He looked like he was about to be sick.

"I'm sorry I dismissed your suspicions," Dumbledore continued sadly. He held out a hand towards me, palm open. "Let me take Harry."

I looked at him, with his cunning blue eyes and devious mind. Even if he wasn't a traitor, I still didn't trust him, I realised. He was too sly, too full of secrets, too driven by ulterior motives.

He was too much like me.

I sometimes wondered where the rumour that he'd been in Gryffindor had originated from. It couldn't have been further from the truth. He was wholly and undeniably Slytherin.

"Sirius," I said quietly.

Sirius lifted his head to look at me, his face full of heart wrenching agony. "Yes?" he said, his voice hoarse.

"Come here."

He staggered dutifully towards me like a man in a trance. I wondered if the events of the night had truly hit him yet.

I held out Harry. "Take him," I said softly. "Keep him safe for me."

He took Harry into his arms, cradling him gently like a breakable piece of china. "Thank you," he whispered. Dumbledore frowned, but said nothing.

I took a deep breath, thinking, calculating.

"Albus," I began decisively. "Take Severus to the Order headquarters and lock him up. I don't care what either of you say, I want him under constant guard until I tell you otherwise. Then arrest Peter Pettigrew and hand him over to the Ministry. While you're there, tell them that Voldemort is dead. Sirius, I want you to go into hiding with Harry until the will is read. Once that happens, Harry will go to live with the Longbottoms. I'll take care of the bodies."

Surprisingly, no-one questioned my orders.

James and Lily were buried a week later in the churchyard at Godric's Hollow. The whole of the Order, as well as several ministry officials, attended the funeral. Harry was not there, however. He was kept far away from public view, for fear that vengeful Death Eaters might attempt to finish the job.

No-one asked me what I'd done with Tom's body.

I'd carried him from the wreckage of the Potters' house and taken him to a small plot of land on the edge of some woods. My father's body was somewhere amidst those trees, dumped carelessly in an unmarked grave. I'd never bothered to visit his final resting place.

Instead, I buried Tom next to my mother. Her tomb was marked simply by an ancient oak tree, its trunk gnarled with age. I laid my hand on the archaic wood, the last remnant of my mother's presence, before turning to the new grave to her left, freshly filled in. Kneeling in the dirt, I pressed my palm to the earth and allowed a tendril of magic to creep into the soil. A tiny sapling sprouted through my widespread fingers, growing until it forked into a young rowan tree, its berries as red as blood.

I pivoted and walked away, leaving the two trees swaying gracefully in the breeze behind me.

**And just like that, we're at the end of part 2! Yay! At least the most depressing section is over now :)**

**As always, thanks for getting this far. I really appreciate it. **

**Amy Grace xx**


	24. A Packaged Snake

**PART THREE: The Repercussions**

Draco knew most of the people that came to his grandfather's funeral. Aristocrats and politicians, family and friends; the stench of old money was almost tangible. It was visible, too, in the black jewels that dripped from their throats, in the fat signet rings on their fingers, in the fine make of their clothes. Even during such sombre rituals, they couldn't resist flaunting their wealth.

_She_ was the same. Opulence oozed from her glittering necklace, her wicked black heels, her luxurious fur collar. Diamond teardrops hung suspended from her ears and her lips were painted a savage, cruel red. Except unlike the others, she seemed genuinely sad. And unlike the others, he had no idea who she was.

Draco had first noticed her because she stood apart from everyone else. During the funeral, while the other guests had clumped together around the graveside, she had stayed back, her gloved hands clasped behind her, her gaze resolutely on the coffin as it was lowered into the frozen earth. Once the service was over, she had retreated to the manor with everyone else, but hadn't spoken to anyone, hadn't milled around and chatted or eaten off the buffet tables.

He watched her curiously from his mother's side as she made her way over to them. His mother clutched his hand a little tighter, squeezing it in reassurance.

She spoke to his father first, in a low, cool voice.

"I'm so sorry for your loss," she said, but she said it like she genuinely meant it. "Abraxas was a good friend."

"I'm terribly sorry," his father replied, all false politeness. "But I don't believe we've met?" It was phrased courteously, but there was an undertone of suspicion.

"Of course," she said smoothly, extending her hand. "Evangeline Chambers."

His father took it dubiously. "My father never mentioned you," he said coldly.

She smiled sadly. "I'm not surprised."

Then she turned to him. Draco shivered slightly under the intensity of her piercing, green-eyed stare. There was something ancient and inhuman about her, but it was oddly alluring rather than frightening. She was like a sleek mountain cat, or perhaps a wolf. Elegant, graceful, beautiful- and dangerous.

"This is your son?" she asked, but it wasn't really a question. She crouched down so that her face was level with his, and gave him her hand to shake. He did so warily. "Pleased to meet you," she said graciously. He nodded shyly in response. She smiled again, but it was a melancholy smile. "You look just like your grandfather."

Then she stood, made her excuses, and left.

A few years later, when he was browsing through some of his grandfather's old things in the attic, he found her. She was in an old photograph, tucked between the pages of a dusty textbook. It was her as a younger woman- perhaps even a teenager- but there was no mistaking that face. She was wearing jewellery and a long, black dress, smiling widely, her arm around the shoulders of a young man with pale blond hair in dress robes. His grandfather, he realised.

In all the photographs and paintings Draco had seen of his grandfather, in not one had he looked happy. And yet in this picture, Abraxas Malfoy's face was lit from within by a tentative, shy smile.

Draco flipped the photo over to read the writing on the back. It was in two hands. The first, which he recognised as his grandfather's, read '_Halloween Ball, 1943'_. Then, underneath that, in a slanted, looped script was written:

'_Dear Abraxas,_

_Thank you for a lovely night! I hope you're not too hungover._

_Love,_

_Evangeline._'

Draco took the picture and put it in his bedside drawer. Sometimes he would take it out to look at his grandfather's smiling face gazing up at him. It comforted Draco that whenever he thought of Abraxas, he instantly pictured that photograph, with its grinning, carefree occupants. They were the golden memories of the past, and a shining promise of the future.

The summer after Draco turned eleven, his parents took him shopping in Diagon Alley. It was something of a rite of passage, he understood, and so he was practically bouncing around the shops in excitement, tugging on his mother's hand. Every storefront was a window into a cavern of treasures. He lingered for a particularly long time in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies, eyeing up the sleek new Nimbus Two Thousand, but eventually he allowed himself to be dragged away and into Madam Malkin's clothing store.

"I'll just go ahead and have a look at some wands, darling," his mother said, ruffling his hair affectionately. He scowled a bit and squirmed, smoothing down his hair hastily once she had left. His father, instantly awkward now that his wife was gone, quickly mentioned something about buying schoolbooks and scurried off, leaving Draco alone with Madam Malkin and her pins and needles. He tried to stand motionless while she fitted him, but he still managed to jump slightly when the bell jangled and the door opened, earning him a jab in the arm. He scowled again.

To his surprise, it was not his parents who had entered, but a girl about the same age as him. She was alone, but unlike him, solitude seemed to come naturally to her, and she strode with a confidence beyond her years into the shop. Madam Malkin turned to greet her with a smile.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she asked cheerily.

The girl smiled graciously. "Naturally."

She took a position next to him, allowing Madam Malkin to slip a robe over her head and begin pinning it. Draco envied her uncanny ability to stand completely still during the fitting, as if she were a statue carved from ice.

"Hello," he said, a bit awkwardly.

She turned her head to look at him, and he got the odd feeling that he had seen her somewhere before. Her dark eyes flicked over his face, as if in examination, and Draco couldn't help but feel a little intimidated. There was something self-assured about her, a kind of quiet confidence that Draco wished he exuded.

"Hello," she replied politely, giving him a small, tight-lipped smile.

There was a short silence before Draco realised the girl expected him to make the next move.

"I'm Draco Malfoy," he said, instantly feeling a bit foolish. He would have stuck out his hand, but Madam Malkin was currently pinning his sleeve, and he didn't want another needle to his skin.

"Pleased to meet you, Draco," she returned, all courtesy and etiquette. "I'm Zara. Zara Dubois."

"You're French?" he asked.

"Only if you go back far enough," she replied mildly, and Draco immediately felt a touch stupid. His own surname was, after all, French too. He fished around desperately for something to say next, and alighted randomly on sport.

"Do you play quidditch?" Then, feeling as if he had to justify that randomness of that question, he added: "It's just that, well, I do, and I'm going to drag my parents to look at brooms again later. I'll probably bully Father into buying me one and then I'll smuggle it into school somehow."

She raised her eyebrows slightly, and Draco wondered if his boast had perhaps been a little ill-advised, but she simply replied that she was more of a fan of broomstick racing, personally, but she had no doubt that Hogwarts security was abysmal enough that he could probably smuggle in an elephant for all the school would care.

He asked her what house she thought she would be in. "Slytherin," she replied matter-of-factly, but she didn't sound particularly thrilled by the idea.

"Me too," he said eagerly. "I mean, all my family have been. It's obviously the best house. Imagine getting put in Hufflepuff though, I'd probably leave, wouldn't you?"

On second thoughts, that joke had definitely been a mistake.

She looked at him seriously for a second, then, to his complete surprise, cracked up. Draco got the distinct impression that she was laughing at him rather than at his joke, and felt his face begin to burn.

"Why?" she asked through her laughter. "The Hufflepuff common room is nearest the kitchens! You could sneak out for midnight snacks whenever you wanted! Hell, you could probably get hold of booze whenever you felt like it! There's no way I'd leave that opportunity."

"Right," he said, unsure of how to reply.

Once she was done being fitted, she went to the counter to pay, then headed for the door. She paused as she was about to leave and glanced at him over her shoulder.

"I'm going to the Magical Menagerie next," she said nonchalantly, "but after that I thought I'd stop off at Fortescue's ice cream parlour." She shrugged, as much of an invitation as he reckoned he'd get. "I guess I might see you there?"

Then the bell jangled, and she was gone.

It didn't take much time for Draco to persuade his parents to let him go to the ice cream parlour after he'd got his wand. They wanted to know who he was meeting, of course, but as soon as he mentioned the name Dubois, they were more than happy to acquiesce.

"Dubois is an ancient wizarding name," his father explained. "I thought they'd all died out, but apparently not."

Draco approached Fortescue's parlour somewhat nervously, but he quickly noticed Zara Dubois sat alone at one of the tables outside, tucking into an impressively large ice cream sundae. She caught his eye and waved him over.

"Hi," he said as he sat down.

"Hello," she replied, smiling. "Glad you could make it."

Draco couldn't fathom why she was at all happy to see him. He didn't think he'd made a very good impression in the clothes shop, but she must've liked something about him to invite him here.

"What would you like?" she asked. It took him a second to work out that she was asking what he wanted to eat.

"Uhm," he began uncertainly, "I'll just have whatever you're having, I guess."

She shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Deftly, she pressed a finger to an item on the menu. The words glowed for a moment before the towering sundae appeared on the table between them. She gestured for him to begin eating, and he readily tucked into the ice cream.

It was strange, he realised. Practically every other person he'd ever met, he'd been able to dominate, adults and children alike. And yet it was clear there was no ordering her around. There was no bullying her, or manipulating her, or controlling her. She was someone who was clearly used to giving her own commands- and having them followed. It was a touch unsettling, and it left him unsure of his standing, but it was simultaneously exciting. Here, at last, was an equal.

A sudden movement caught his eye, and he glanced around, his gaze alighting on her numerous shopping bags. He watched for a second, and something inside one of the bags squirmed again.

"Zara," he began uncertainly.

"Hmm?" she replied noncommittally through a mouthful of ice cream.

"There's something moving in one of your bags," he said, his eyes still on the bag in question.

"Oh," she said unconcernedly. "Don't worry about that. It's just a snake."

He raised his eyebrows at her. "A snake."

"Yes," she said, clearly not feeling the need to explain herself.

"Zara," he began again. She looked up at him with a touch of irritation in her eyes. "_Why_ is there a snake in your bag?" he asked.

"Because I bought it," she replied, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Right," he said. "But _why_?"

"It's a present," she said.

"A present."

"Yes. A present."

He shrugged helplessly, a bit bewildered. "Alright then."

She looked at him again, a little smile tugging at her lips. "Would you like to see it?"

Draco couldn't help smirking a bit himself. "You know what," he replied, feeling a bit more attuned to her sense of humour, "I think it's a pleasure I can go without."

They chatted for a bit longer, finished their sundaes, and parted ways, promising to see each other on the Hogwarts express. It was only after he'd left that Draco realised he'd forgotten to ask where her parents were- and why she'd been conducting her shopping trip at eleven years old by herself.


	25. A Snake in the Post

A couple of days after Harry's eleventh birthday, he received a package in the post. This was not, in itself, altogether unusual. What was unusual was the fact that the package was moving.

"Sirius!" he called up the stairs.

"What is it?" came the voice of his godfather.

"Another birthday present!" he replied. In response, he heard Sirius' footsteps come racing down the stairs. Really, it was as if his godfather was more excited about his presents than he was.

He tore open the postcard first and read it aloud so Sirius could hear.

"_Dear Harry, hope you have a wonderful birthday! Sorry this is going to be a bit late, but I hope once you open the present it'll be worth it. Don't be alarmed if it's moving- that means that it's still alive. Lots of love, from Auntie Evangeline_."

He flipped the card over to see a photograph of the Eiffel Tower. Auntie Evangeline travelled a lot, and she liked to send him postcards from the different places she'd visited. She'd been a friend of his parents, apparently, although he only had very vague recollections of meeting her. He hadn't seen her for several years now, but a card and present arrived every year without fail around the time of his birthday.

With some caution, he carefully opened the parcel. To his surprise, a beautiful, blue-black serpent slithered out. How Auntie Evangeline had found out about his growing abilities as a Parselmouth was beyond him, but it was just like her to get him a thoughtful present like that. He grinned in delight as the little snake coiled around itself and proceeded to complain about being sealed in a package for far too long.

"_Hello_," he said quietly, peering at the serpent. Sirius shuddered slightly, as he did every time Harry spoke Parseltongue.

The snake reared its head and looked at him. "_You'll do, I suppose_," it said after a moment, and proceeded to slither off in the direction of the kitchen.

Sirius looked at the serpent with mild disbelief. Then he glanced at Harry, a slight smile on his lips. "Well then. What are you going to call it?"

"Hedwig," said Harry decisively.

"_Lord help me_," said the snake.

Sirius and Harry put off their impending trip to Diagon Alley for as long as possible. It wasn't that Harry didn't like shopping; he actually really enjoyed the pastime. What he didn't like were the near-constant gawks and stares he received every time he said his name or showed his scar in public. It was why he and Sirius lived a fairly secluded life, rarely venturing out into the wizarding world. In fact, Harry had spent most of his childhood in the muggle world in an attempt to avoid unwanted attention. This trip, however, could not be avoided indefinitely.

Probably the only part he was really looking forward to was seeing Neville again. They'd arranged to meet outside Quality Quidditch Supplies, for which Harry was grateful, as it meant that he might not stand out so much in the street if Neville was with him. He didn't get to see Neville very often, but he was one of the only other wizarding kids he knew, which sort of automatically made them friends. They'd both lost their parents, too- although in very different ways. Harry was just glad he could be assured of one friend when he arrived at Hogwarts.

The trip, to Harry's surprise, went fairly smoothly. Only about dozen people had tried to shake his hand in the Leaky Cauldron- including a man who said he was going to be the new Defence teacher at Hogwarts. Or at least that's what Harry thought he'd said, but the man had stuttered and twittered so much that he couldn't be sure. What had been his name again? Squirrel? Honestly, he wouldn't be surprised if the man's name was Squirrel. It wouldn't be the most bizarre name he'd heard in the wizarding world.

But the most unexpected encounter had come at Flourish and Blott's. He'd been struggling to carry a mountain of schoolbooks to the counter when a girl his age had practically materialised next to him.

"Need a hand?" she'd asked nonchalantly.

"Yes please," he'd replied.

She'd taken half his stack of books off him and carried them to the counter, setting them down.

"Thanks," he'd grunted out, placing his own pile down.

"Not at all," she'd said. "You're Harry Potter, aren't you?" she'd asked casually after a moment, looking at him out of the corner of her eye.

He'd sighed wearily. "Yeah."

"Cool," she'd replied offhandedly. That had thrown him a bit, and he found himself smiling slightly.

Then she'd turned to leave. "I guess I'll see you at Hogwarts then, Harry Potter," she'd said. It had been phrased indifferently, but she'd been smiling faintly.

"Wait," he'd called out. She'd looked back over her shoulder, smiling expectantly. "Who are you?"

"Zara Dubois," she'd replied, and breezed out though the door.


	26. I Stab Myself

**Trigger warning: Description of and refences to suicide**

_**Salazar**_

"I was thinking," I said to Dumbledore over a mug of coffee one morning in his office.

"Oh dear," he replied, his eyes flicking over a copy of Crochet For Beginners.

"Very funny," I retorted, frowning. "Harry's turning eleven this year, isn't he."

Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully. "I suppose so."

"So," I began, "he'll be coming to Hogwarts. Which means we can't really keep him hidden anymore."

"Which means, I take it," Dumbledore continued, "that you think he might be in danger."

I shrugged, taking a sip of my coffee. "It's not an unreasonable assumption."

Dumbledore leaned forward, placing the book down. "What more do you want me to do? I've already got the Order following him every minute of the day. Half of the staff here are Order members. We've put every possible protective enchantment on both him and this castle. What more can I do?"

"It's not about what you can do," I replied. "It's about me. I think I should take on a closer position to Harry so I can protect him myself."

"You mean become a teacher?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

I shook my head. "No. I mean…" I hesitated. "Become a student."

I wasn't entirely sure Dumbledore's eyebrows could get any higher. "Be reborn?" he asked incredulously. "But I thought Voldemort no longer had the locket."

I shrugged again. "Be that as it may, the locket is still technically in Tom's possession. And with any luck, it being a horcrux shouldn't make a difference to the rebirth process. Probably."

Dumbledore folded his arms. "It's a bit of a gamble."

"I know, but…" I avoided Dumbledore's gaze. "I just have a feeling that it's time for me to be reborn once more."

Dumbledore was silent for a second. "Like a funny feeling, or a prophetic feeling?" he asked at last.

"Prophetic," I replied.

"Right," he said.

I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the desk. "It's not a coincidence that I already have a body lined up that's the right age. Nor is it a coincidence that I've been having dreams for years in which both that body and Harry appear. I know you don't like divination, but there is fate at work here. You just have to trust me on this."

Dumbledore sighed. "I'm not going to argue with you when it comes to Harry's protection. If you think he needs you there as a student, then I will do everything in my power to ensure that happens."

I grinned, clapping my hands. "Great! In that case, I'll just go and kill myself, and then we can go through the paperwork together." I stood up from my chair and prepared to leave.

"Wait, Salazar," Dumbledore interrupted, an expression of mild disbelief and horror on his face. "Did you just say you're going to kill yourself?"

"Well, I've got to die somehow, haven't I?" I replied. "Unless you'd rather kill me yourself."

"No, thank you…" he said, looking a bit ill. "If I may ask… how exactly are you going to kill yourself?"

I shrugged. "Not sure. I'll probably just stab myself or jump off a cliff."

Dumbledore blanched slightly. "How can you be so blasé about it?"

"Albus," I said patiently. "When you have died as many times as I have, doing it once more doesn't feel like a big deal. Besides, I know I'm going to wake up straight afterwards, so it doesn't really feel like actually dying."

I went back to the Cambridgeshire House to die. To my surprise, the sentient form of the house was waiting there to greet me. I hadn't seen her since that day when I arrived back to find out eighteen years had passed, but I had never forgotten that face. She looked exactly the same.

"Hello," I said.

"Hey Salazar," the house replied. "The knife is waiting for you in the main bathroom. I thought that would be the easiest place to clean up afterwards."

I didn't ask how it knew. "So thoughtful," I said instead, and breezed past her.

Sure enough, there was a knife by the sink in the bathroom. I picked it up, turning it over in my hand, and realised it was the same knife I'd used to stab Tom all those years ago. It felt oddly heavy in my hand.

I knew where I would go, once I died. I'd lied when I'd told Dumbledore I would wake up straight afterwards in a new body. In reality, I would go to the place in-between.

That was the best way to describe it. It always appeared the same to me, always offered me a choice. I could be reborn again, or move onwards into true death.

I had chosen rebirth every time without fail.

And so I would follow that little tether, the magic of the locket, back down to life.

I weighed the knife in my palm, testing the edge. It was razor-sharp, which was good. I wanted to die as quickly as possible. As much as I joked about it with Dumbledore, there was still something terrifying about dying. It was like a trust fall, like a jump across a ravine. There was always that nagging fear that I might not get to come back this time around.

But I had to. This time, more than ever. I had foreseen myself in a new body, so I would fulfil that destiny, even if it led to my final, permanent death. I knew better than to resist a prophecy.

I grasped the dagger tightly by the hilt, kneeling on the cold stone tiles of the bathroom floor, and turned the blade towards myself. Closing my eyes, my traitorous hands shaking, I thought of Tom, and how I had sunk this dagger into his flesh. I thought of how peaceful he had looked in sleep.

Then I took a deep breath, and stabbed myself.

I awoke in the place in-between. It was the crossroads near where I had grown up, as it always was, but quiet, and lit with a white glow. Perhaps the symbolism of it was a bit obvious, but it did the job. I was used to this place, so I though of clothes, and they appeared on me. I thought of sitting down, and a bench materialised. Now all I had to do was say I wanted to go back, and I would wake up in a new body.

I paused for a second, and wished for a mirror. One appeared. Cautiously, almost fearfully, I approached it and took in my appearance.

I was Salazar Slytherin again, young, slight and dark-haired. And male. I was perhaps in my twenties, around the age that I had met the other founders. It felt strange to be back in this skin, like an old item of clothing that I still owned but no longer wore.

"Hey, 'Zar," came a voice from behind me. I froze. There was never usually anyone else with me in this place, and yet somehow…

I turned, slowly, to see Godric Gryffindor standing there, his hands in his pockets, smiling faintly. The blood drained from my face.

"It's been a while," he said.

I couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stare in shock.

"We all miss you," he continued, that faint smile playing on his lips. "Why haven't you come to join us yet?"

I remained silent, motionless.

He began to stroll towards me, stopping about an arm's length away. "What are you so afraid of? If you go back, all you'll find is pain." The kindness in his voice made my chest ache.

"Pain is all I deserve," I said quietly.

Sympathy pooled in his eyes, and he reached for my hand. I let him take it. "No one deserves pain, 'Zar," he said softly. "And you have had enough for a thousand lifetimes."

I blinked through a blur of tears. "One last body," I whispered. "One last life. Then I'll join you. I promise."

He nodded sadly before suddenly pulling me into a tight embrace. I buried my head in his shoulder, realising with a sharp stab of pain how much I'd missed him. "Then I shall wait for you," he replied as he and everything around us dissolved into mist.

There was a cold stone altar beneath me. I opened my eyes, and found myself in the cavern. So it had worked. One last body for one last life.

I swung my legs over the side of the altar and hopped down to the floor, wobbling a bit as I adjusted to my new form. Grasping the stone lip for support, I straightened, feeling younger, smaller, more full of energy.

I felt lighter, too. Not just physically, but also… emotionally. Inhabiting a new body always seemed to have that effect on me; the pain and heartache and worries of my previous lives appeared far away, almost alien. Like the fuzzy, half-forgotten memories of another person.

Feeling significantly more motivated than I had in a while, I didn't linger long in the cave, instead apparating back to the Cambridgeshire House. After all, there was the matter of my dead body to dispose of. I walked with no small amount of trepidation back into the bathroom, the notion of seeing my own corpse a touch unsettling.

There was an awful lot of blood. I mean, it made sense: I had died from bleeding out, but I just wasn't quite prepared for how much there was going to be in a grotesque puddle all over my nice bathroom tiles.

Evangeline Chambers was slumped, quite dead, at the centre of the crimson stain. I nudged her body dubiously with my toe, rolling her so she was on her back, her wide, unseeing green eyes staring quite unsettlingly at the ceiling. Her skin was deathly pale, leached of all colour except for the sticky patch of dried blood on one porcelain cheek. The same blood had seeped into her clothes and matted her hair to her skull. I found the whole sight extremely uncomfortable, and had to suppress an involuntary shudder.

It took barely a flick of my fingers to vanish the ghastly scarlet pool. Then I gingerly leaned over and prised the silver knife from her stomach, reasoning that it made no sense to waste a perfectly good blade. Crouching next to her face, I gently closed her eyes before apparating us both to the little plot of land where I had buried both Tom and my mother. There was the ancient oak tree, and to its left, the young rowan.

"I guess we're both dead now," I said to Tom, a little sadly. "And it won't be long before you, too, find a new body."

There was no response from Tom's grave, for which I was a touch disappointed. And then I felt ashamed for being disappointed.

I buried myself- or, rather, Evangeline- on the right of my mother. Over my grave I planted a silver birch, watching as it began to grow and twist towards the bleak sky. I stepped back, and looked at the three trees, the last remnants of my family. For a short while, I allowed myself a moment of nostalgia, of regret and heaviness and melancholy.

Then I turned away, towards the future, towards a new life of hope and opportunity. I could not change the past, however much it haunted me. I could only move forwards.

Dumbledore jumped a bit in his chair as I apparated into his office. It took me a second to realise that he wouldn't recognise me in this new form.

"Hello, Albus," I said cheerily, finding his expression a little funny.

"Salazar?" he asked dubiously.

"The very same," I replied, taking a seat. "although, thinking about it, I'm going to need a new name. Something that I can remember easily."

"Like what?" he said, still frowning a bit, as if he couldn't get his head around the fact that I was now an eleven-year old.

I thought about it for a second, my mind inexplicably drifting to my encounter with Godric in the place-in-between. Zar, he'd called me. They all had, back in my first life.

And if this was to be my final life, it seemed somewhat fitting to take that name again. With, of course, some slight alteration, given that I was female again, something that would undoubtedly come in handy when I inevitably went to visit Aristomache in the Chamber of Secrets.

"Zar…a?" I said aloud, looking to Dumbledore for approval.

He shrugged. "Zara what?"

I thought about the place where I had buried Tom, my mother and Evangeline. A little patch of land, next to some woods. Then I remembered how Tom had taken his pseudonym from a French phrase.

"Du bois," I said confidently. "Dubois."

"Well then, Zara Dubois," Dumbledore said mildly, "I suppose I'd better enrol you at Hogwarts."


	27. A Train Ride

Harry shuffled awkwardly along the corridor of the Hogwarts Express, glancing at compartments along the way to see if they were empty. Nervously, he flattened his fringe, eager to avoid any unwanted attention. The longer he could retain his anonymity, the better.

"Looking for someone?" came a voice from behind him.

He jumped reflexively and turned to see the girl from Diagon Alley. She was standing directly behind him, her arms folded and a slight smirk on her face. What was her name again?

"How do you_ do_ that?" he complained.

"Do what?" she asked, tilting her head contemplatively.

"Just- _appear_ like that," he explained, gesturing helplessly with his hands, "from nowhere."

_Zara Dubois_. That was her name.

She shrugged. "I wasn't aware that I did." There was a moment of silence before she spoke again. "So, are you? Looking for someone, that is."

Harry shook his head. "Not really. I'm just trying to find an empty compartment."

"Try two doors down," Zara suggested helpfully.

Harry picked up the handle of his trunk again and dragged it down the narrow corridor to the door Zara had suggested and peered through the glass. Inside was a blond boy, sat alone gazing out the window.

"There's already someone in this one," he said flatly.

Zara waved her hand dismissively. "Oh, that's just Draco. I promised I'd meet him here." When Harry didn't move, she raised her eyebrows expectantly. "Well, go on in, then."

Feeling it was probably best not to argue, Harry slid open the glass door with on hand, jamming a foot over the threshold to keep it in place. The blond boy looked up, startled.

"Um," said Harry awkwardly. "Hi."

"Hello," said the boy cautiously, his eyes narrowed.

"Are you going to go in or not?" came Zara's impatient voice from behind him. "You're blocking the doorway."

"Zara?" asked the boy- Draco- in surprise.

Harry squeezed into the compartment, allowing Zara to slip past him. He wondered offhandedly where her trunk was. "Hi Draco," she said airily, sprawling across one of the seats and propping her feet up. "Oh, this is Harry," she added as an afterthought, gesturing vaguely in Harry's direction. Harry nodded at Draco, and sat hesitantly across from Zara, who was already fishing in one of her pockets. "Aha!" she exclaimed, pulling out a pack of cards and slamming them down on the little table. "Do either of you play poker?" she asked, looking at Harry and Draco with surprisingly piercing eyes.

Harry and Draco glanced at each other in mild confusion.

"Uh, no?" said Draco, just as Harry replied with a hesitant "Yes?"

Zara shrugged. "That's okay. You two can play together. I think I have some poker chips in here somewhere." She rummaged in her pocket again. "If not, we can just play for sweets or something."

Eventually, Zara managed to find some poker chips, and the three of them began to play. It was a bit awkward at first, but Zara was more than capable of pretty much single-handedly carrying a conversation, and it wasn't long before both Harry and Draco got past their initial shyness- if only to complain about Zara's uncanny poker abilities.

Harry gradually felt himself begin to relax in the presence of Zara and Draco. He'd been paranoid for so long about being the centre of attention once he got to Hogwarts, but Zara didn't seem to particularly care about who he was, and he was pretty sure Draco hadn't put the clues together and recognised him. And on top of that, he genuinely liked them. Draco, to be sure, was a bit pompous and had a certain touch of arrogance, but he was self-assured and had a refreshing sense of humour. Zara, on the other hand… she was unlike anyone Harry had ever met. Sharp, lively, slightly eccentric and overspilling with untamed energy. And yet there was a certain gravity to her, an air of otherworldly knowledge. Sometimes, when he and Draco were talking, she would go oddly quiet and a shadow of indescribable sadness would pass over her face. It would vanish within a second.

Eventually, he plucked up the courage to ask what houses they thought they would be placed in. It was a subject that he knew could be delicate, especially where inter-house rivalries and family legacies were concerned, but he reasoned that it was best a matter broached early, before it had the chance to do damage later on.

As soon as he had phrased his question, Zara and Draco glanced at each other, and something unspoken passed between them.

"Slytherin," said Draco after a pause, while Zara remained quiet. "I mean, my whole family have been, so it's sort of a given." Harry shifted uncomfortably; that was not the answer he'd been hoping for. Sirius had always been extremely vocal in his dislike of Slytherin, and Harry was more than aware of the house's infamous reputation. But then again, he had a nagging memory that someone had once told him his Auntie Evangeline had been in Slytherin, so perhaps it wasn't so bad.

"And you?" he asked Zara gently, when she didn't answer. Her gaze was on the Scottish countryside flying past the window.

She glanced at him a little self-consciously. "Same here."

"Oh. Okay," he said, digesting this new information.

Zara seemed to pull herself back to her former vivacity with some effort, a little smile forming on her lips. "Let me guess: Gryffindor, right?" Harry nodded. Zara shrugged carelessly in response. "I don't really buy into that whole Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry, personally. The whole idea is a bit stupid. So let's just make a pact, here, that whatever houses we get put in, we stay friends. Sound good?"

Draco shrugged, but Harry smiled, a bit relieved. "Sure," he said.

Staying friends with two Slytherins was easier said than done, Harry soon discovered. Not just because of the prejudice that was so strong against the house, but also because he spent so little time with them. Mealtimes, common rooms and dormitories were all partitioned by house, and it turned out that Harry could only really meet up with Zara and Draco during break or if they had a class together. Meanwhile, his life was taken up more and more by friends in his own house: Neville, Ron, Hermione, Seamus and Dean, while Zara and Draco turned out to be quite popular among the Slytherins, gathering quite a group of friends of their own. There was no falling out between the three of them, no conscious parting, but rather the growing realisation that they would only ever be friends from a distance. Still, even as they grew apart, Harry cherished them as his first friends at Hogwarts, and held comfort in the fact that, any time he glanced across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table, he could always be sure to receive a wicked smirk from Zara.

**Sorry it's been so long since I've updated! Hopefully we should have a new chapter (or two) out sometime in August, depending on how much I procrastinate.**

**But anyway, I have exciting news! The wonderful _Bellees_ has agreed to translate _Morality and Immortality_ into Russian, so any Russian speakers, or people that just want to practice reading Russian can read this fic on her page when it comes out. I will keep you guys updated on this in the coming months. A big thank you to Bellees for offering to do this, and for your support of this story. If anyone else wants to do translations into other languages, don't hesitate to contact me.**

**As always, love you guys!**

**Amy Grace xx**


	28. The Troll

I couldn't quite believe that it was Halloween already. My first few weeks at Hogwarts- at least, the first in this life- had been consumed by incessant paranoia, relieved only marginally by my new friends. Almost all of the spare time I could find was spent watching Harry from the shadows relentlessly, fearing that he could be attacked any moment. On top of that, I had weekly meetings with Dumbledore, drawing up numerous plans for scenarios in which Hogwarts was compromised and Harry was kidnapped or tortured or killed. I would check Hogwarts' security every night before bed, adding layer upon layer of enchantment, and even when I retired to my dorm I could never sleep for long, instead jolting awake with the lingering fear that I had forgotten something, or that someone had managed to break in during the time I'd been asleep. On the few occasions that I managed more than an hour's sleep, I was plagued by nightmares. My dreams had worsened gradually over the years, but now they tormented me regularly with the deaths of Harry, myself, and, even on occasion, Tom.

Being back at Hogwarts was more painful than I could have imagined. The castle had always held memories for me- both good and bad- but now I was constantly struck by the awful nostalgia it prompted. The Slytherin common room, where Tom and I had often hung out. The hallway where the Room of Requirement was, that we had often journeyed down. The dining table, the lake, the grounds- they were all steeped in my memories of Tom. I missed it, I realised. I missed my life as Evangeline Chambers when it had just been me and Tom and our friendship.

Aristomache was suddenly more of a comfort than ever, and I began consciously making the effort to visit her more often, bringing her snacks and just staying in the Chamber to talk to her. Her surliness was strangely reassuring, and I knew that under her prickly exterior, she genuinely cared about me.

What surprised me the most was my instant friendship with Draco Malfoy.

Initially, I'd decided to befriend him- and the other children of Death Eaters- in an effort to essentially be an undercover spy. I'd reasoned that if there was a plot to destroy Harry, I had a fair chance of discovering it if I was close to the Dark families. With those thoughts in mind, I'd contrived to bump into Draco in Diagon Alley, and subsequently initiated a friendship. I had only thought of how I could use him to my advantage- and unfortunately, I was very good at doing just that.

And yet, as we spent more and more time together, I found myself unconsciously growing to like him. He wasn't Tom- no-one could ever replace Tom- but he was funny and quick and we never seemed to have trouble talking. There was this spontaneous, mutual chemistry between us, something that was rare, at least for me. He was arrogant, to be sure, but this did not make his company less appealing to me; I was by far the more arrogant one, and my arrogance somehow seemed to cancel out his.

The other Slytherins I was less acquainted with, but they seemed alright when I spoke to them. Sly, conniving and proud, with a healthy dose of ambition. And utterly enthralled with Draco and me.

Draco and I were natural attention seekers and leaders. It was hardly surprising that we attracted the attention of our yeargroup. We had all the traits required to be popular- and infamous. Charisma, beauty and no small amount of meanness. Being mean was an easy escape, at least for me. It distracted me from my crippling paranoia and took my mind off Tom.

Harry, thankfully, seemed blissfully unaware of my cruelty, and was always ready to grin at me when we passed in the corridor. I could not say the same for his Gryffindor friends.

It was the night of the Halloween Feast. Everything was normal. I was sat at the Slytherin table, chatting to Draco whilst keeping one eye on Harry at all times.

"Thank God that Quirrel's not here," Draco said through a mouthful of mashed potato. "I'm not sure I could stand watching him quiver and witter all night."

"He's probably holed up in his chambers, hiding under his duvet," I replied, gesticulating with my fork. "I swear, if you so much as breathed too loudly in his direction, he'd die from shock."

Draco chuckled. "Fancy testing that theory?"

"Yes please," I said, laughing. "It might actually provide us with some excitement for once."

Just at that moment, the man in question burst into the great hall as if summoned by our words. His face was deathly pale and he was shaking even more than usual.

"Troll!" he wailed, flapping his arms dramatically. "Troll in the dungeons!" Then he proceeded to faint.

"You just had to open your big mouth," Draco muttered to me. I elbowed him in the ribs.

Dumbledore stood up instantly, with a quick glance in my direction. "Prefects! Lead your houses back to your common rooms immediately!"

I glanced at Draco uneasily as the entire room rose to their feet and started shuffling off amid much noise and clamour. "So no-one's going to point out to him that the Slytherin common room is in the dungeons?" I whispered.

Draco shrugged. "I don't think he really cares if Slytherins get mauled to death by a troll, so long as the golden Gryffindors are safe."

"Fair point," I conceded, glancing over to the Gryffindor table. To my horror, I noticed Harry and his ginger friend- I couldn't be bothered to learn his name- sneak out of the hall in the opposite direction to the rest of his house. "You go ahead," I said to Draco distractedly. "I'll catch up with you I a minute."

"Wait, where are you—" Draco began, but I ignored him and slipped away in order to follow them. As I left, I passed Quirrel's unconscious body, still on the floor and in sever danger of being trampled. I stepped over his legs considerately, intending to pass him by when I was suddenly overcome with an aching sense of nostalgia. Something about Quirrel felt oddly familiar, like an old friend I hadn't seen in a while. But I ignored the strange sensation, intent on following Harry.

I trailed him down several corridors, and contemplated invading his mind to see what, exactly, he thought he was doing. Before I could make up my mind, however, we were confronted by the sight of a very large, very ugly troll.

I had spent the past weeks speculating on every possible attack that could be launched against Harry. Needless to say, a troll had not made it onto the list.

I arrived just in time to see the troll slouch through a doorway and Harry to slam the door shut on it. Apparently, Harry and his ginger friend had had the abysmal idea to lock it in the girls' bathroom. Which, by the sounds of screaming coming from within, was in fact occupied.

Both Harry and ginger yelled "Hermione!" at the same time, before preparing to barge into the bathroom.

"What the hell do you two think you're doing?" I asked cuttingly from behind them.

They both turned to look at me in shock.

"Zara!" Harry cried in recognition. "You have to help us, Hermione's in there with a troll!"

"I can see that," I replied calmly, as the screaming from inside the bathroom intensified. "I sincerely hope you weren't thinking of going in there."

"We have to save her!" Harry's ginger friend insisted.

"That's all very well," I said, "but it is a girl's bathroom, and there could well be scantily clad females in there." Both Harry and ginger went slightly red. "Best to let me handle this," I concluded, smiling insincerely and reaching for the door handle. "Neither of you move," I warned, before pushing the door open and entering the bathroom.

The stench of the troll was almost unbearable, so I decided not to bear it and just kill the thing as quickly as possible, which turned out to be surprisingly easy. As soon as it was dead, I cast a helpful air freshening spell. It helped, but didn't quite cancel out the odour of mouldy socks.

Carefully, I stepped around the troll's carcass and the debris of the bathroom to see a girl- Hermione, I presumed- huddled by the sinks in fear. She gazed up at me with red eyes wide in shock. I looked down at her calmly.

"Get up," I said.

"Dubois?" she whispered, her voice trembling.

"The very same," I replied. "Now get up and go outside. Your two idiot friends who tried to rescue you are waiting out there."

"Who?" she asked. "I don't have any friends."

"Well, apparently you do," I said coldly. "So suck it up and go speak to them. They were fully prepared to die for you."

Just as she was getting to her feet, Severus, Minerva and Quirrel burst in. The first two I knew from my days in the Order. It was strange now suddenly being so much younger than them. Minerva was white with fear and rage, while Severus bent over the troll's corpse. Quirrel, meanwhile, simply blanched and sank down onto a toilet. I felt that strange surge of familiarity again, like an invisible bond between us, but the feeling subsided and I decided that it was just my imagination.

Harry and the ginger peeked their heads guiltily around the door.

"What on earth were all of you thinking?" Minerva hissed, her face brimming with suppressed anger. "You could have been killed!"

"As could every student in this school if the troll had been properly dealt with by the faculty," I replied smoothly, inwardly seething that something like this had happened on my watch. Minerva was right. Harry could have been killed- and it was all my fault. I was angry at the staff, yes, but I was mostly angry at myself. "How the hell could this have been allowed to happen? I thought Hogwarts was supposed to be secure. I can tell you right now that the governors will be hearing about this from my parents. If this school is incapable of dealing with threats like this, then I recommend that new safety measures are needed."

There was utter silence, and I realised that I was probably not behaving like the average eleven-year-old would in this situation. I supposed it was too late now to go back.

"Now," I said briskly, before anyone had a chance to speak, "my classmates and I will be retiring to our dormitories while you figure out how your staff managed to be so incompetent as to allow a troll to break in, and work out how to prevent such events occurring in the future."

And with that, I dragged Hermione from the bathroom and left with my nose in the air.


	29. The Mirror of Erised

"Are you alright?" I asked Harry as soon as we were out in the corridor. He nodded, both him and the ginger gazing at me in awe. I supposed they must have heard my little outburst in the bathroom. "You three should be getting back to your dorms," I advised, my voice a lot calmer than I was feeling.

"Dubois?" Hermione began quietly. I turned to face her. "Thank you," she said.

I shrugged. "You should really be thanking these two. I never would have found you if they hadn't been about to charge in there and get themselves killed."

"You really came to rescue me?" she asked the two boys, wonder and gratitude on her tear-stained face.

They both shrugged awkwardly. "I guess," the ginger one muttered, looking a little sheepish.

"I'll see you guys around at some point, then," I said hastily, and turned to leave before things got any more sickeningly heart-warming.

"Bye, Zara," Harry called after me.

I waited until they had safely arrived back at Gryffindor tower, the tracking enchantments I had placed on Harry letting me know where he was at all times. Then I made my way up to Dumbledore's office.

I knocked on the door, just in case anyone else was in. "Enter," came Albus' voice almost immediately.

I stormed into the room, stopping just short of the desk. "How could this have happened?" I demanded, my voice uncharacteristically raised. "The whole point of me being here is so that things like this don't happen."

Albus turned to face me, his face grave, and shrugged helplessly. "We have no idea."

"None of my wards were set off," I continued, furious with Albus and the Order and myself. "No enchantments broken. There's no way that thing could've got in by itself. Someone somehow managed to smuggle it in. And whoever it was knew exactly what they were doing."

"Salazar," Albus said, very quietly, "have you considered that it did set off the wards, and you perhaps… missed it?"

"What are you trying to say, Albus?" I asked flatly, a sharp undertone to my voice.

Albus sat down wearily. "I'm trying to say that… you've never been- happy. And ever since Harry was born, you've been more and more… unhinged. And I think it's become worse recently. You're good at hiding it, but… I don't know if its because of your dreams, or the pressure…. I just think that, perhaps, you're not in the best condition, mentally and emotionally, and that might have caused you to miss something."

There was a long silence.

I sat down heavily. "You think I'm losing my mind," I said bleakly.

"No," Albus insisted. "I just think that… that you could do with taking care of yourself before you start trying to take care of Harry."

I was quiet for a long moment. "It's easy to forget," I began eventually, my voice weak. "With all this power, and knowledge, and my centuries of memories… its easy to forget that I'm just an eleven-year-old. And it sounds stupid to say, because I'm also over a thousand, but… I am eleven. I am Zara Dubois, and she's a child. And she will never be an adult, because every time I close my eyes I see my own dead body. And I see Harry dead, too. And I've spent so long avoiding death that… it terrifies me, Albus." I was quiet for another minute as Albus gazed at me compassionately. "I want Tom back," I said quietly, my throat constricting.

"I know," Albus replied gently, a hint of sadness in his tone. "I understand, Salazar. More than you know, I understand wishing that things could go back to how they once were. Hoping that someone who is irredeemable might see the light again."

I looked up at him in surprise. "Who?"

Albus suddenly looked unfathomably tired and unhappy. "Gelert Grindlewald," he admitted shortly. At my look of shock, he shrugged self-consciously. "We were friends once. More than friends. But that was a long time ago."

"How could you bring yourself to fight him?" I asked softly. "To defeat him?"

Albus' eyes took on a faraway look. "I had to. I put it off as long as possible, but… in the end, I knew I must face him."

"Do you think I'll have to fight Tom eventually?" I asked, a little afraid of the answer. "Is that how it must end? With me killing him when he returns?"

Albus sighed. "I fear that may be the only way to defeat him."

I shook my head. "I can't do it, Albus. I can't kill my best friend. My family. I won't."

"Then we must hope that the prophecy is true," Albus said sadly. "And that Harry is indeed the chosen one."

* * *

As Christmas drew near, I began to notice that Harry was regularly sneaking out of bed in the middle of the night and spending hours in the same abandoned classroom. The room was not particularly special, and I was confused as to why Harry felt the need to travel there night after night. My paranoia kicked in, and I resolved to go there one night to see what had clearly captivated Harry so much.

When I arrived, Harry was seated alone in the dark, cross-legged, in a shaft of moonlight. I crept, invisible, into the room and peered into the gloom to see what he was gazing at with such enthrallment. The pale moonlight slanted in through the classroom window, and glimmered off the surface of a large, tarnished mirror.

My blood turned to ice.

I had not seen that mirror in almost a thousand years, but I remembered it all too well. It had once stood in the cavern where I now kept my host bodies, a perpetual reminder of my dreams, my ambitions- and what I stood to lose if I failed. When I had first discovered the mirror, not long after leaving Hogwarts, it had showed me a future, my future. A future of eternal life, of cosmic power, of limitless knowledge.

The Mirror of Erised had showed me immortality.

Eventually, I had wrenched myself free of the indulgent self-deceit the mirror prompted. I had resolved to destroy it- and when I had failed to do that, I had hidden it so that none might ever find it again. And yet here it was, exactly as I had left it.

My hypocritical curiosity got the better of me for a moment, and I approached the mirror silently, careful to avoid startling Harry. I stopped just before the glass, and waited.

For a second, all I saw was myself. Then the reflection rippled, and I gazed into the depthless green eyes of Evangeline Chambers. She smiled at me, a real, soft smile that lit up her face. And then, from behind her, Tom stepped up towards the glass. I felt as if someone had punched me in the chest.

Evangeline glanced at Tom, and they exchanged brief smiles before turning their gazes to me. Tom was exactly as I remembered him from school: tall, dark-haired, with cutting cheekbones and glittering blue eyes. Evangeline, too, was captured as she- I- had been at sixteen, her dark tresses tumbling around her beautiful porcelain face.

They were so, achingly, happy. I reached out a hand to touch the cold glass with my fingertips, as if I could somehow reach them, reach this utopian world where everything was perfect.

Then Harry stood up, and the illusion was broken. Ashamed, I tore my hand away from the glass and retreated back into the shadows, backing out of the room and running away down the corridor, as if I could outrun the content smiles of those idyllic ghosts.

* * *

**Do you ever just read your own writing and be like, ****_wow, how did i get so depressing_****? That's literally me all the time now :) Don't worry, I promise I'll put some funny stuff in there soon!**

**I just have a couple of things to say, and I'll try to be brief.**

**Number One: Recently there has been some controversy surrounding some comments that J.K. Rowling has made. I just want to make it absolutely clear that, although I (obviously) love the world of Harry Potter and all its characters, J.K. Rowling's views on any and all subjects are in no way my own, and I do not support prejudice or discrimination of any kind. This website is a wonderfully tolerant place, and I hope that by making Harry Potter our own, we can promote diversity and inclusivity in our writing. I will definitely be making more of an effort to do this.**

**Number Two, and on a lighter note: I've been thinking about starting another piece of writing! I'm not sure if it'll be Harry Potter related, or even a fanfic. I've currently got some ideas for a modern retelling of Frankenstein, which would have themes similar to Morality and Immortality. So, if anyone has any ideas, tips, etc or if you'd like to read something else written by me, please let me know.**

**Anyway, thanks so much as always.**

**Amy Grace xx**


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